SARMATIAN
by Lalinalyn
Summary: When betrayal rocks the members of the Round Table, will they be able to save one of their own from certain death?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

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_**Prologue**_

"Artorius, your knights."

Arthur nodded to the Roman official in his elegantly styled and decorated toga, the air of importance emanating around him indicating his recent departure from Rome. Already his pride seemed slightly dimmed, his head held not quite so high, his back not quite so straight. In Britain, rumours were steadily growing and spreading that Rome's strength was diminishing. However, seeing the ceremony taking place in the spacious courtyard of Hadrian's Wall, one could easily be swayed into thinking the power of Rome was as strong as ever in its control over Britain.

One bishop, twenty Roman legionnaires, two members of the Roman governmental council, one hundred Roman soldiers, thirty guards from the Wall, and one very nervous Arthur.

A bead of sweat dripped down the nape of Arthur's neck, disappearing into the stiff collar of his gleaming ceremonial armour. Absurdly heavy, stiflingly hot, entirely to tight around the chest and laughingly unpractical in its use as armour at all. Battle was, however, not the purpose of this certain outfit, as Arthur reflected as he stepped forward and felt the various medals and ribbons knocking against his breastplate and desperately hoped that they wouldn't fall off.

A speech of acceptance was expected. A thrilling, invigorating, inspiring speech to swell the budding loyalty of the young Sarmation knights in front of him and to ensure that the Romans felt they had made the right choice in setting this sweating lad of eighteen to command one hundred and ten new men.

Arthur looked at the rows of young men in front of him, and resisted the childish urge to sit down, put his face in his arms, and start bawling like an infant.

In retrospect, it could have been worse. Arthur had had no idea what to expect, having not seen his new knights since that day five years ago they had passed by on the hilltop and he had caught his first glimpse at what had lay ahead in his future. More then Roman battle training had passed since then. The young, chubby eleven, twelve and thirteen year olds had matured into strong youths of varying size and imposingness. Indeed, some looked startlingly young, blinking straight ahead, fists held quivering at their sides to try in vain to camouflage their shaking fingers. Others were older then Arthur himself, and glared at the Roman commander in front of them with determination and defiance. They were clothed in the required Roman garb issued to them in the training camps, their faces clean shaven and hair cropped short. They were trained and clothed and taught to be Roman soldiers, but as Arthur stood in front of them and they looked back at him, all he saw was Sarmation boys torn from their homes facing ten years of fighting for a cause not their own.

The memorized speech he had practiced and prepared in a haze of nervousness, conceived and perfected in a continuous circle of pacing in his quarters slipped away to the back of his mind. Arthur stood in front of his men, with nothing to say. He had repeated his speech of acceptance over and over again, made sure to be courteous and polite to the Roman officials, while paying true tribute to the fresh soldiers now under his command. Now, it seemed silly and pompous. Nothing he could say would soften the blow to these boys; nothing could make what their fate was any easier to bare. There was no glory in protecting the empire that had torn them from their homes.

The bishop frowned, and whispered something to his pageboy. The legionnaires looked uncomfortable, and the government officials looked annoyed. The soldiers and guards looked hot and bored. The knights stared back at Arthur, judging him, waiting for him to speak.

"My name is Arthur." He blurted, finally. Somewhere, the rational part of his mind screamed at him to think about what he was saying, but for some reason unbeknownst to Arthur, he kept speaking. "I will be your commander. The legend of your forefathers is one I respect and admire; I only hope that you will come to feel the same respect for me. Our duty is to protect Britain, to protect the sanctity of the Holy Roman Empire in Britain. You all are sent to me not of your own will. Although this is not your choice, it is your choice what you do now that you are here." Arthur faltered, the Romans looking displeased and the knights watching him with a certain amount of blatant curiosity. "You are my knights, and if you serve me, I will serve you as best I can with the life that is given to me." He finished, he voice seeming to echo in the stillness of the British air.

No one seemed to move. Then, finally, the Roman legionnaires started walking back towards the wall, quickly followed by the other Roman officials. The soldiers and guards were led back towards their posts, visibly relaxing with the finishing of the ceremony. Finally, only the knights and Arthur remained. A few knights shifted uncomfortably, looking at each other before staring back at Arthur.

Arthur walked up to the rows of knights, and took a closer look at each of them. He had been in a sort of daze when each had been knighted, and their names had quickly been forgotten to him, which he strongly regretted now. He walked down the row, his deep red cloak billowing out behind him, staring into each knight's face, only to be met with varying amounts of confidence. Most broke eye contact after only a moment; some refused to meet his gaze at all. A great portion seemed rather hypnotized by the figure strolling past them, bronze armour gleaming in the watery British sun.

One knight, however, stared back at Arthur with the same frank interest and confidence as Arthur himself. The Roman hesitated before the knight, and found himself watching him. The dark eyes that so interested him stood in a face not so different from those around him. His dark curled hair, Roman clothes and general appearance did not differ greatly from the other knights. And yet he stood out, so much though, that Arthur couldn't believe he hadn't noticed him before. It was because of his manner, Arthur decided. That way he carried himself in such a way that it didn't matter whether he was wearing rags or a Roman uniform, it seemed like he was wearing the finest Roman cloth.

There was one more difference, which Arthur hadn't noticed at first. The knights carried axes, swords, and knives, whatever their personal preferences were, they were allowed to carry it. Although the Romans had trained them in combat, formations, and other knowledge, they knew enough to allow the Sarmations to use the weapons taught to them by their fathers. This boy did not carry any of the usual weapons that Arthur had seen before. Instead, buckled at his slim hips were two identical sheaths. Arthur gave in to his curiosity.

"Draw your weapon." Arthur's voice was loud in the brisk afternoon air. Momentarily confused, he had chosen to refer to the boy's blades in the singular tense. "Fight me."

The boy blinked in surprise, but stepped forward and pulled his twin blades from his sheaths in one fluid motion. He inclined his head in answer, not speaking a word. Arthur pulled Excalibur from his own sheath, and held it in front of him in a battle-ready pose. The boy didn't move, allowing Arthur to take the first swing.

Without any warning, Arthur swung at the knight.

A harsh clang rang out through the air, and some of the youths called out in boyish excitement, they're order and age forgotten as the thrill of competition took over them. Arthur swung again, this time a high stroke aimed at the knight's face. This was met with another crash of steel against steel, as his sword was caught between the crossed blades of his knight. Arthur was suddenly very aware that more then a simple spar was at sake. If he lost, he also lost not only the respect of this one boy, but that off all his knights watching him. That is, if he ever earned it in the first place. Arthur looked between the crossed blades, but his knight's gaze never wavered. He could have even sworn that the knight smirked at him. Picking up the intensity of the fight, Arthur made blow after blow after blow, continuously striking out at the knight, who cautiously remained on the defensive.

The knight was being careful; his eyes scanning Arthur watching and learning of his style of fighting to better block and avoid the blows. Arthur reflected he used to do that himself, until he learned rather harshly that in battle, you don't have time to be too careful. Fighting was all about taking risks, but not making mistakes. Arthur still had the scar to prove it.

"Strike me!" Arthur urged as his blow was once again swept away. The knight made the smallest of pauses, before following the order and swept out an attack. As the knight switched to the offensive, Arthur was able to catch a glimpse of the knight's true fighting ability. The two blades whirled through the air, sometimes acting together, sometimes acting as two separate entities. Excalibur sang, matching the blows and switching from attack to defence in quick succession.

Suddenly, Arthur upped the difficulty of the fight. Until then, the two had stayed locked in place, treading the same soil, but not moving. With practiced ease, Arthur stepped sideways; moving in a circle, then came back the other way, all the while fighting the boy. The knight, at first disoriented, quickly gained back his confidence, and fought back blow for blow. The watching boys cheered and jeered, their loyalty split between cheering for the boy or for their commander.

It seemed for a moment, that the dark-haired knight had gained the upper hand as the blows went faster and faster, the sharp blades inching towards the Roman's chest. Then, suddenly, Arthur knocked one of the blades out of the knight's hand. It spun to rest a few feet away on the grass. The knight looked shocked, but paused only for a second before returning to the fight, but it took barely a moment for Arthur to knock away the blade and hold Excalibur, quivering, at the knight's throat.

The dark eyes watched him under the brown curls, face expressionless and palms out.

"What is your name, Knight of Sarmatia?"

"Lancelot." The boy answered.

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	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

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_**-8 YEARS LATER-**_

Icy fingers inched their way down his neck all the while caressing his face mercilessly. Arthur pulled his heavy Roman cloak tighter around his neck and brushed the intruding snowflakes off his eyelashes. Winter was fading, slowly, leaving behind the wet and dreary weather of continuous rainfall. But it was as stubborn as always in its leaving, refusing to depart without the last few minor snowfalls of the season, like the one currently taking place. Tucking the rough material around his arms, Arthur's eyes scanned his knights. If he were discomforted, they would surely be as well.

It was an automatic reaction after fighting with these boys, no, men, for eight long years. He suspected it was quite like the feeling of a father towards his children; their lives had become more important to him then his own. Of the one hundred and ten Sarmatians he had been given, nine were left alive. Nine. If this meant nothing else to Arthur, it meant that he could never visit Sarmatia without being drawn, hanged and quartered before taking two steps onto their land.

But it did mean more to Arthur. The first few battles had been the worst. From Rome, their first few missions were sent to prove that the courage and strength of Sarmatians in battle were just silly legends. The missions had been suicide. Although Arthur and his knights had come out victorious in each one, the casualties had been horrendous. It had become more difficult, as the days turned into weeks and the months turned into years, to lose another one of his knights. Each time one fell in battle, or another succumbed to infection, Arthur felt like he was losing a brother. It was the same, if not worse, for his knights. They had grown close over time, brought together in their fate to serve their sentence. Left fighting on British soil for a cause not their own, the knights had watched in pain and anger as their numbers slowly dwindled, leaving them increasingly more alone with every passing day and battle.

The number of dead decreased as the fighting continued. This had as much to do with tremendous skill of the fighters as it did with the missions sent from Rome being only slightly more humane. They were a messy bunch, not much to look at no matter how many young girls called out at them during their returns to the wall. Long, tangled hair unkempt, unshaven, scarred faces and patched, ragged clothes that were a mixture of Roman style as well as remembered Sarmatian dress and just plain practicality. They were all critically in need of a bath, covered from head to toe in dirt and splatters of blood and even horse manure.

Arthur leaned on a tree and watched his knights settle down in their newly made camp. Bors and Dagonet were talking quietly while tending the fire, once in a while the former would emit a loud, barking laugh, which would disturb the relative quietness of the camp, and those around them would roll their eyes and ignore them. The twins, Aidron and Brydan were searching through the supplies for some form of dinner for the knights. Gawain, Galahad and Kastrian tended to the horses, feeding and grooming their mounts before the darkness overcame the last dying hours of daylight. Tristan sat a little ways away, murmuring softly to his hawk, stroking its feathers with his calloused fingers. The bird preened its wing but seemed utterly comfortable with the attention. Shrouded in the growing shadows of the night, Lancelot leaned against a tree, facing away from the bright glow of the fire. Shivers wracked his body; the drifting snow clinging to his short brown curls.

Arthur felt the eyes of the rest of his knights follow him as he walked across the small clearing and put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder, watching with concern as the man startled into awareness. Seeing whom it was behind him, Lancelot slid to the ground, one arm propped on his knee, looking away into the forest, refusing to meet the eyes of his commander. Arthur pushed some of the heavy folds of his cloak onto Lancelot's lap as he sat beside him on the cold, hard ground. The stubborn knight paused, indecision marking his eyes, before silently accepting the offered warmth into his freezing body.

"You should never be off guard, nor stray so far from the fire. But you know this, Lancelot."

The knight said nothing,

"Sacrificing your cloak for Tennir was a noble act, one I regret not having completed myself."

Lancelot turned at the mention of the name. "My cloak was worthless. I can easily get another one when we return to the wall. Tennir will never return to the wall, nor will he return home. He will never see Sarmatia again. His family, if they are still alive, won't even get notice due to the general laziness of Romans."

It was Arthur's turn to be quiet. His goal, to spurn Lancelot into talking, was completed. His brown eyes watched Lancelot's face sorrowfully.

"He died an honourable death in battle. It was quick, which I'm glad for. If our _duties _prevent him from going home, or even to the pitiful grounds of our meagre cemetery, I refused to let him rot in the leaves as food for the wolves. Besides, my cloak was always a death shroud. It is better that it covers his lifeless face then mine."

Arthur stirred, laying a warm hand on his knight's wrist.

"Peace, Lancelot. He will not be forgotten. You killed his foe, my friend, and there's nothing more he would have asked of you."

"You mean other then saving his life, of course."

"Lancelot, listen to me. You know as well as I do that Tennir knew the risks and consequences of this life. He always knew, as we do now, that death is always a possibility!" Arthur forced his voice to be lower in tone. "You did not kill him. Grieve, mourn him, but do not be guilty. I know you too well, Lancelot. His death was the fault of Woads, not a mistake of your own."

Lancelot looked away quickly. When Arthur could see him once more in the glow of the fire, his face was expressionless, and his dark eyes shrouded.

* * *

The morning dawned clear, the lingering snow glittering in the early morning sun. Arthur woke to find his knights still stretched out asleep, except for Lancelot, who stood watch near the fire's warmth. Lancelot didn't stir as Arthur stood beside him. Frosted trees glistened brightly like so many stars dropped from the sky during the night, framing the sight lay out before them. The clearing of their camp overlooked a steep river valley, breathtaking in its unaltered beauty. Arthur glanced over at Lancelot, and was relieved to see his dark eyes calm and his expression peaceful. Tennir and his knight had been close, and his fall had been a harsh blow to Lancelot. But Arthur knew he would move on, just like he and his knights had done for the past long years.

"Wake them up." Arthur instructed Lancelot, gesturing to the sleeping forms spread out in front of him. "We have a long ride today; we are still over a week from the wall."

Lancelot nodded and stepped over to the largest sleeping mass. Dealing it a swift kick with his boot, the knight nimbly leaped away as Bors sprang awake, knife in hand and eyes sparkling with startled alertness. Seeing Lancelot gently shaking Gawain and Galahad's shoulders and calling the rest awake, with no sign of trouble in the camp, he groaned and glared at the curly-haired knight.

"Just try that again, you ruddy bastard."

Lancelot smirked, and warmed his hands over the fire as the Sarmatians woke. Tristan and Kastrian looked to Arthur, and at his nod, the two swiftly saddled their horses and disappeared into the forest's dark horde of trees. The seven remaining knights and Arthur quickly stamped out the fire, and readied their horses with practiced ease for the journey ahead. The two scouts returned just as they had erased any sign of their presence from the camp. The knights knew something was amiss when Tristan galloped into camp, and pulled up next to Arthur with caution written on his face. Kastrian burst through the surrounding foliage soon after in a flurry of stomping hooves and showering leaves. The raven-haired knight pulled the prone figure before from the saddle, and threw him to the ground in front of Arthur.

"A scout, following us on foot." Kastrian said, by way of explanation.

"He was travelling on horseback, previously." Tristan added, watching the sky for any sign of the hawk that was his constant companion.

Arthur climbed down from his horse, and tore the gag from around the foreign scout's head, and had his boots promptly spit upon. Lancelot landed on the ground nearby; his drawn swords sliding easily back into their sheaths on his back.

"It would be wise not to do that again. If you so choose, however, to do so, I will gladly remove your tongue for you."

"Hold, Lancelot. He has need of his tongue yet." Arthur intervened, thought there was the smallest glint of humour in his eyes when he glanced at Lancelot, that only those who knew him well would have seen.

Excalibur pointed at the young scout's throat, gleaming lethally in the pale daylight. "Whom do you ride with?"

The scout growled at Arthur, his eyes filled with anger.

"Aidron, Brydan."

The two knights stepped forward as one, the long, sliver blade slipping easily from the sheath at each man's waist. Arthur backed up next to Lancelot, raising an eyebrow a the smirk on the other's face.

The twins circled the man kneeling in the dirt, their sharp weapons tracing the circumference of his front, shoulders and back in a continuous ring, the second blade following after the first. The tips of their weapons were barely a few inches from his skin, and with every circle they drew in the air, the blades drew steadily closer to their mark.

"What is your name?" Aidron asked, his voice devoid of any emotion, calm and cold at once. The scout remained silent.

The knives increased in their pressure, now they danced, catching the folds of his heavy tunic as they brushed past his shoulders. The knights continued their smooth, short steps around the huddled figure of the man, who was kept still by the blades so near to his skin. The foreign scout was frozen in fear, caught in a deadly trap, with one blade above his heart, and the other drifting over his spine.

"Who is your master?" The knives traced a thin line against his skin.

"Where is your homeland?" Crimson blood swelled up through the line.

"What is your destination?" A small cry of pain broke through his lips, but he spoke no words.

"What is your goal?" Sharp steel tore through muscle and scraped bone-

"…Artorius!…"

The blades paused, their tips dripping in blood. The scout realized what he had burst out, the dawning horror on his face overpowering caution. The young man tore free from the blades in his skin with a harsh scream of pain, bloody spread over his tunic, staining the spot where his insignia should have been, but wasn't. The scout turned, crawling, stumbling desperately towards the forest. A sword at his throat slowed his progress, but with a gleam in his eye he jerked his throat against the blade.

Tristan pulled his sword away, wiping the smear of dark blood off before slipping it back into his sheath. Gawain leaned over the scout's body, his fingers searching for a pulse in the limp neck.

"He's dead." Tristan informed him, walking back to Lancelot and Arthur. Gawain frowned at him, but then dropped the wrist back against the corpse.

"He's right."

Galahad regarded the scout's body curiously. "Unfortunate." he stated. Crouching down, he searched the deceased man's clothes for any concealed letters, weapons or any other identifying marks. He found a knife hidden in the man's boot, and a crude necklace of wooden beads around his neck, but it was his armband that most interested the knight. With a firm tug, he slid it off the limp, cooling arm and rose to present it to Arthur.

"There's an inscription. But it's been censored, marked out with a knife. I don't know what it originally said." Galahad held up the round, thick leather band. Arthur took it from him and brushed his thumb over the writing, as if to erase the scrapes that concealed it's message.

When it had been created, it was obvious that it had taken some skill and craft to carefully mark in the intricate pattern and letters. The forms of words could be seen, winding around the band. This wasn't the general attire worn by most of the poor rebels or warriors Arthur had fought. It was, however, similar to the small tokens of home his knights carried in reminder of their homeland. If the scout had carried such a thing for sentimental value, then why had he so brutally scratched out its message?

"Arthur, why would his goal be to find you?" Lancelot questioned, distracting Arthur, who had been intently looking over the armband. "I could be mistaken, but I don't think that it was to share a mug of ale." He finished dryly.

"Have a quarrel with someone, Arthur?" Gawain asked, receiving the dead man's weapon from Tristan, who had confiscated it upon the scout's capture. He left the man on his back with his hands by his sides, and shoved the sword into the ground at the unknown man's head.

Bors grunted, crossing his arms. "Romans would send their cavalry. Soldiers, not some serf from their grand estates!"

"Some private feud then? Perhaps he came by himself." Dagonet suggested.

"No. From what I saw, there was a party following him, of how many I'm not sure. There were thirty at least, maybe more. He was a scout, of that I'm certain." Kastrian clarified. Tristan nodded his agreement.

Arthur handed the band to Lancelot, who accepted it with a raised eyebrow. Arthur ignored him, and turned to the others. "We don't know who he is, or what purpose he served. Because he is dead, we now have no way of knowing other then going to the source. Tristan, Kastrian, I want you to see how many of them there are and how close they are."

Tristan swiftly mounted his horse and, quickly followed by Kastrian, disappeared into the trees. Lancelot stared at the armband for a moment, then slipped it onto his wrist.

Aidron glanced at the dead scout, and then turned to Brydan. "A pity he died when he did. We probably would have learned more had we gotten him back to the wall. He should have known we weren't going to kill him."

"That would ruin the point, Brother."

Bors paused, surprise registering on his face. His eyes narrowed.

"Wait, we weren't going to kill him?" The knights climbed onto their horses and one by one filed into the trees after Arthur, in the opposite direction as Tristan and Kastrian. Bors, seeing the other leave, climbed onto his horse himself, his voice calling after the others with a note of disappointment. "We weren't?"

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	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

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When the two scouts caught up with the other knights, they pressed onwards to the front of the small group where Arthur rode. Veering slightly to the side now and then to avoid the trees, Tristan delivered his report.

"There are fifty six of them. All have weapons. About half have horses. All look capable of battle. They travel quickly and easily, their numbers not slowing them. None wear uniforms, nor do they look like Romans. Or woads, or Saxons."

"If we fought them, do you think we could win?" Arthur asked, his voice so quiet that only Tristan could hear it.

"I cannot say."

Arthur nodded, staring straight ahead, but not seeing the forest in front of him. Tristan, sensing the conversation to be done, fell back with Kastrian to join the single file line of knights trailing through the trees. The choice was a difficult one for Arthur, but one he knew that had to be made. Should they wait and fight, there was a chance it could mean the demise of him and his knights. Something Arthur had learned early on in his command, was that he should never, ever, underestimate his opponent. Especially now, when he knew virtually nothing about his adversary other then that they were searching for him, he wasn't in a position to be too confident. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in his knights; they had proven themselves time and time again to be capable in battle.

But this wasn't their fight. Not that any fight was, in Britain, under Roman direction, but it wasn't Arthur's fight either. Their task, to stop the band of Woads terrorizing a Roman family in the South, had been completed. There had even been one casualty for Arthur, Tennir, along the way. That had been hard enough to bear, but it had been part of their duty. But now, this fight was not ordered by Rome. There was no reason to fight, no need to risk the lives of his knights over seemingly nothing.

Arthur frowned at the trees. But could he just do nothing? The band of whoever it was that were following them had gotten this far already. Fifty-to-nine weren't impossible odds, but they weren't favourable either. If they managed to come around and ambush him and his knights, there wasn't much they could do. And in the trees, it would be especially difficult. Horses were not practical in such a confined space. It would be an easy trap to set.

What could he do? What choice could he make, when there was no right choice?

"Ask us, Arthur." Lancelot said from behind him. Arthur turned in his saddle; grasping the reigns tighter in his hand involuntarily as surprise registered on his face. His knight wove around an offending shrub, than pulled up beside Arthur. His dark eyes held a note of amusement, but his features were otherwise sombre.

Arthur sat back, and frowned at him. As far as he'd known, only his scouts and himself had been privy to the information regarding the party following them. It was out of character for Tristan or Kastrian to reveal anything to the other knights without Arthur's permission. And yet Lancelot apparently had heard it all. "How did you…?"

"I am a God."

Arthur glared at him, but Lancelot only smirked and looked straight ahead. "I cannot depend on you to make my decisions for me." Arthur continued, moving on at the realization he would get no more out of Lancelot.

"This isn't for you to decide. As far as Rome is concerned, we did what we were ordered to do, and they are content for the time being. You answer to Rome, Arthur. We answer to you." Lancelot fumed, his voice dark. "And for once, there is no duty you must fulfill. There are few choices we get to make in this life, Arthur. Let this be one of them."

Arthur faced the rough path in front of them, his eyes focused on the trees and branches framing it, but his eyes saw a different place and time.

* * *

"_NO, Arthur!"_

_Arthur pushed the arms braced against his shoulders off and shoved the boy away, walking quickly in the other direction. He could hear the footsteps following him, and barely resisted the urge to run. A hand on his shoulder spun him around, and he found himself once again face to face with an angry nineteen year old. Almost black curls fell long around his clean-shaven face, and his cheeks were rouge with the fury reflected in his dark eyes. _

_"Lancelot, it's not up to me. Rome says-"_

_"I don't _care _what the bloody hell Rome says or thinks for that matter! Do you even hear what they are ordering? You are sending us to our deaths, Arthur! Three _hundred _Woads, Arthur! That's suicide! How can you not see that?"_

_"There's nothing I can do! I-"_

_"You lie. You could say no, you could argue, you could not obey every word they say like a obedient little Roman dog." Lancelot shouted, ignoring the staring occupants of the wall that were currently watching them with varying degrees of shock written on their faces. _

_"You have no idea what you are talking about. It's my duty-"_

_"Your duty? Perhaps I'll save your reputation the trouble, and slit my wrists in my own chambers. Why wait for tomorrow when I can be warm and comfortable when I die instead? I'm sure you will be just as content with-" _

_Arthur snapped. Before he or Lancelot could register what he was doing, he reached back and punched Lancelot clean across the face. Lancelot was cut off in his tirade, and reeled for a moment, before dropping to the ground with his mind a flurry of dizzy pain and confused and hurt feelings. There was a general outcry from those around them. Arthur stared down at his friend, bewildered at what had just happened._

_"Arthur?" _

_It was a group of his other knights. This moment just kept getting better and better for Arthur. He considered what to do with quite a high level of anxiety he felt well deserved for this occasion._

_"What did you do?" One of them asked, he couldn't tell which one. Surely they knew how provoking Lancelot was. Almost all of them had been in more then one fight with Lancelot over the past few years. Then why were they staring him so accusingly?_

_Because he wasn't one of his knights. He was their commander. He was their leader, and he had never before raised a hand to one of them, even when they were insubordinate, and Roman military rules called for some form of discipline. He always found some other form of punishment, one that didn't involve him causing pain to the young men charged to his care. _

_"I…"_

_Lancelot had blinked past the dizziness that had assailed him, and pushed himself, wavering, to his feet. He stumbled, but glared at Arthur. Already a deep red mark coloured the knight's cheekbone. Anger was still in his eyes, but it was mixed with something else, something Arthur realized with a painful jolt was disappointment. _

_"Fine then. Lead us to our deaths, _Commander_. You say you have no choice. Neither do we." _

_Arthur watched, unable to move, as Leniet and Nathaniel led Lancelot away with the other knights. His hurt best friend and first knight did not look back. _

* * *

The next day, he had led just over seventy Knights into battle against three hundred Northern Woads. Two days later, his number of knights had dropped down to forty-seven. They came out victorious, but not without losing enough to qualify in Arthur's mind as a great defeat.

It was the greatest loss in one battle that Arthur and his knights had dealt with since the first few days of his command.

Lancelot had been right.

* * *

Lancelot sighed in satisfaction as he leant back against the soft bark of a tree. Having a backrest was highly undervalued. One only learned this by sitting in a saddle for the better part of your days. His eyes closed involuntarily, and Lancelot wrapped his arms around his freezing self and tried unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that his arse was growing steadily wetter from the moist soil. Ah, the life of a Sarmatian knight serving the Roman cause.

Lancelot became dimly aware that someone else had sat down next to him. He didn't have to drag one eye open to know that it was Arthur, but he did so anyway. The man was frowning, which didn't surprise Lancelot in the least, but he seemed to actually be aware of the surrounding world for the moment, which was a step up from the mood he had been in earlier. Of course Lancelot knew what was bothering him; he had been close enough to simply overhear Tristan's report as it was being told to Arthur himself. Tristan knew Lancelot could overhear as he informed Arthur, and Lancelot knew he had done it on purpose. He also thought the scout might've winked at him as he passed by later, but he wasn't quite sure. It was always hard to tell with Tristan.

"What would you have me do?" Arthur asked, his voice betraying his frustration.

"Don't ask me. You know my answer. Ask them." Lancelot replied with his eyes shut once more. He gestured towards where the other knights were relaxing on their short break. Arthur nodded, pushing himself up from the frigid ground, and making his way over to the small group. Lancelot followed, with a small groan of annoyance as he left his backrest.

Arthur's presence immediately got the knights attention, knowing from his stance and expression when he had serious news.

"What is it?" Galahad asked; putting down the stale bread he had been attempting to eat.

"We are being followed by fifty-six unknown armed men. It was their scout that Kastrian and Tristan found. We could wait for them, find out what they want, and fight them if need be, or we could continue on back to the wall as planned."

The knights waited, expecting an announcement of Arthur's decision. When none came, they shifted in their seats and glanced at one another, not quite sure of what was expected of them. Finally, Bors cleared his throat.

"And…?"

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but Lancelot beat him to it. "He's asking your opinion." He answered wryly.

The knights were silent. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, and glanced sideways at Lancelot. The Roman commander was sure that he could see the corner of Lancelot's mouth twitching.

"I say we fight." Tristan commented, breaking the stillness. "It's better to fight by our means, when we're prepared, then it is for them to ambush us."

"This isn't our battle to fight!" Galahad interrupted him vehemently. "It's one thing to just obey our orders, but we're done! We've completed the mission we were sent out to do, why risk more death?"

"Are you suggesting we run?" Bors growled. "Like a bunch of yellow-bellied Romans?" Arthur raised his eyebrows at the slight, but said nothing. "No. I'd fight the bastards."

"I agree with Galahad. Enough blood has been spilt." Dagonet said quietly.

Kastrian shook his head. "It's not up to us. They are following us, intent on finding Arthur, for reasons we do not know. They've already set the battle in action, it's just where and when that's up to us."

"We'll fight." Brydan said simply, answering for both himself and his twin.

"If they're after Arthur," Gawain started, "We'd best protect him then, shouldn't we?"

"Gods know he couldn't do it by himself." Galahad sighed. Arthur frowned, but the young knight ignored him. "Fine then. To battle we go, like nice little Sarmatian knights."

Dagonet nodded his agreement, putting all in favour.

"Then it's decided." Lancelot stated. "We fight."

"That is a myth," Arthur muttered, mounting his horse and checking Excalibur. "There are no nice little Sarmatian knights."

* * *

The battle was set. Once it was decided that the action was going to take place, the preparations were relatively simple. Tristan and Kastrian had found a suitable clearing; it was not too large to give the greater number of enemies an edge, but not too small to be restrictive. It was decided that their adversaries would not know their exact number, there was no way that any of them or their scouts could have come near enough to the knights without them being aware of it to find out. So, Galahad and Tristan would scale the trees and serve as archers, at least for the beginning of the battle. After much resistance on the part of Arthur, the remaining knights decided upon a defensive ring formation around their commander once the fighting started.

Now, all that was left was to wait for their opponents.

Lancelot slid off his black horse, the frozen ground hard beneath his worn boots. Fighting on horseback had many advantages, but they were impractical in enclosed spaces and hand-to-hand combat. The knight preferred the agility and freedom of straight on fighting. Besides, Lancelot found using two swords drastically more comfortable on the ground. The brown-haired knight sent his horse a safe distance away from the soon-to-be battle site, to wait patiently for him as it was trained to do.

His armour made soft rustling sounds as the pieces rubbed against one another as he swept the identical blades out from behind his shoulders in a smooth, practiced motion, and swung them separately around his around his wrists in two deadly circles; the glinting metal whirring through the cold air. He spun the blades in separate directions then evenly switched to slicing them together in a figure 8, the blades the same miniscule amount apart every inch around the cycle. Then he swung them in two Xs, two opposing Xs, and finally an X together. The blades suddenly changed into separate designs and movements, too quick for the eyes to follow.

Lancelot focused on the knives slicing alarmingly close to his face, concentrating on executing a new series and patterns of movements foreign and random to anyone but himself. Up, around, slice, thrust; together and apart, crossing and cutting, all in graceful ambidextrous movements that had his blades singing through the air.

Lancelot stepped forward with his right foot and twisted to the left, the blades twirling in an arc behind him and clashing with a great ring of metal into the sword that held them both in place in the air, directly over the sword-bearer's hear.

"Arthur." Lancelot greeted, his features growing slightly embarrassed at being surprised like that. He had obviously not expected his commander to be stepping in on his sword practice.

"My friend." Arthur nodded in greeting, drawing Excalibur back away from the two sharp knives that were braced against it. His dark eyes were calm, the deep, rolling seas of doubt and wordy buried soundly beneath the sound façade. But Lancelot saw through the mask immediately, and due to his many years of experience, made no comment.

Suddenly, the powerful sword swept a heavy blow towards Lancelot's chest. One blade intercepted it easily, deflecting the blow towards its twin, wherefore the momentum sufficiently drawn out, it was completely blocked away. Lancelot tilted his head to Arthur, traces of amusement evident on his composed features. The two blades swung together in a quick, shallow arc towards Arthur's head, only to be dodged and forced to drop at separate angles to parry the downward thrust made by the sword. This task skilfully completed, the two beings sliced apart with a resounding metallic clink of metal upon metal, and flew towards Excalibur.

"Was your father as skilled as you are with those demons?" Arthur asked, not pausing in his deadly dance with Lancelot. Conversations like these were not unfamiliar to either of them. The opponent in question made no outward sign on hearing the query until he answered a moment later.

"Better." His voice showed no strain or lack of breath, but a faint flush brushed his cheeks as he ducked to avoid the sword shearing over his head. "He was unbeatable."

"And yet you still live. He must have taught that trait to you as well." Arthur replied, stepping away from one blade and deflecting the other. Fighting Lancelot required more observation skills then Arthur had known he ever possessed before meeting the knight. One sword was difficult enough to keep track of at this speed, two were menacing.

"I have my faults. My scars can attest to that."

"You are a knight, Lancelot. Not, whatever you may think, a God."

"It is as well that I am not." Lancelot answered quickly, slicing his blades together and then tearing them apart. "I would be horrible at answering prayers."

A whistle from Galahad quickly stilled their sparring. Their foes were approaching.

* * *


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

They came through the trees without hesitation. Boys ranging in age from just past childhood to aging men with silver speckled beards rode on healthy, glowing horses or brandished heavy swords and axes. They stood without any formation, in a rough line before the leaves. The horses stomped their feet impatiently on the hard, frozen dirt and those without mounts shuffled their numb feet aimlessly in place. Their numbers were not imposing; the knights had bested the same number countless times before. And seeing them now, in their weathered rags that served for clothing, without any crest or insignia upon their chests and no armour to speak of, the knights felt they had the distinct advantage.

Their leader stood out from the rest, daunting on a sturdy black horse that shook its head and lips, breathing loudly through its teeth and staring with black eyes under heavy lids. The man above was calm in comparison, his shoulders set back and soothingly stroking the mane of the fuming horse. A dark cloak draped over his shoulders and head, throwing his features into darkness.

Arthur urged his own mount forward, his voice loud in the frigid air. The knights remained still and mounted behind him. Their hands lay on their weapons.

"My name is Artorius Castus, and these are my knights. What is your name and your purpose?"

"So few, Artorius?" The answering voice was cold and emotionless, deep and dark as Britain's seas, and just as vastly mysterious. "That does not reflect well on your skill as Commander."

Lancelot shifted on his horse and adjusted the reins in his hands. Recognition burned its way through his mind, the voice was painfully familiar, and he knew that he had heard it before. But where? The knight frowned. A cool breeze drifted past him, causing a shiver to run slowly down his spine.

"Answer him." Bors growled loudly from behind Arthur.

"My name is of little importance. Names fade, and are forgotten as time passes. My purpose, however, is easily expressed." The man spoke again, the ring of metal resounding through the small clearing as he drew his sword.

"CHARGE!"

In a flash, Arthur pulled Excalibur from its sheath and held it high as he galloped forward with a battle cry. His knights followed, their weapons easily in their hands before the opposing man had spoken.

Hooves drummed against the earth in a steady beat, matching the pounding heartbeats of the men racing towards each other. Voices raised in adrenaline-induced battle cries. The knights met their opponents in a crash of metal upon metal and the heavy thump of flesh colliding with flesh.

The knight's formation was based upon their knowledge and expectations of their foes. The hooded man wanted Arthur, and so the Roman's loyal charges surrounded him in a tight and impenetrable arc. Only arrows could break through the screen and Arthur was no novice at dodging and deflecting the deadly shafts.

The battle was surprisingly skilful. The knights' opponents were neither wild nor relying on brute strength but instead fought with carefully calculated blocks and resistance. For every blow or strike from the knights, a defensive stand was made, backing off and yet pushing forward at once. Few attacks were made on the part of assailants, simply blocking the knight's assault and moving on.

On, on towards their target. Towards Arthur. The knights swung hard, their opponents falling, but slowly. The arrows that flew from Tristain and Galahad in the trees did the most damage, but with both fighting at such close range it was difficult for them to get a clear shot. For the most part, the unknown fighters remained frustratingly alive.

"Argh!" Bors cried. "Cowards, all cowards!" Another fighter fled from the reach of his knife. "Stop running away!" His horse reared with similar annoyance, throwing its head and tossing its mane.

Beside him, the twins fought side by side, matching each other's movements a moment before it seemed physically possible. Although firm, the bond the two shared was not perfect. A thin line of blood on Adron's forearm was testament to that. His assailant, however, thanks to Brydan, was drastically worse off.

Near the twins, Kastrian found his sword locked between the blades of two young fighters. The young man on his right had the daring to bare his teeth in a knowing grin, pushing harder on his weapon. The scout glared at him, and the boy looked slightly unnerved in the few moments before Kastrian kicked him away, and delved his sword into the gut of the other boy. The one he kicked attempted to straighten himself up, but still retained an awkward slouch as he tried to look manly and bare his sword while clutching his crotch with the other hand. Kastrian shrugged, and aimed a slash at the boy's heart. The young man slapped his sword away with his own, and slipped back, ashamed, into the crowd and left the scout with yet another assailant to fight.

Arthur, from horseback, held Excalibur high and watched the battle in front of him. He kept his eyes open for the few arrows that were fired by there opponents, so that he could easily hack them away, so that they fell in shards to the crushed grass below, to be trampled by his horse's hooves. His eyes scanned the clearing for their leader, but, unable to find him, was left confused. His eyes leaving his immediate surroundings, Arthur finally found him. The sounds of the battle seemed to fade away as he watched the hooded man, his horse surrounded by the towering trunks of the surrounding trees, and partially camouflaged by the generous branches of the birch and oak. The dark cloak seemed to rustle, and Arthur was sure, even though he could not see the man's face, that underneath the darkness-lending hood, the man was smirking.

Dagonet stood directly in front of Arthur. Any foe attempting to reach the Roman had first to go through the tall, bald and imposing knight. He viciously attacked what few that got even this far through their formation, but was continually frustrated when his heavy stroked were blocked and thrown aside. "What is this devilry," He muttered, his frown deepening as two more enemies evade the tip of his sword. An uneasy feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't right. He was missing something.

Tristan fired off arrows, one after another, each time taking careful aim so as to not his one of his fellow knights. It was difficult, but Galahad and he were used to shooting in such compromising circumstances. It wasn't the arrows that were bothering him now, however. It was their enemy. They weren't acting as normal fighters would in hand to hand combat. The warrior's mindset, 'my life or his', did not seem to apply to them. They weren't trying to kill or even would the knights. Only defence, pushing forwards towards their goal. But their goal, Arthur, remained untouched. The knights' defence remained strong; their formation still unbroken. Tristan's bowstring stilled, his mind flashing. They didn't attack because they were ordered not to. But if their goal wasn't Arthur, then what was it? Or, who?

"Lancelot…!" Galahad whispered, his voice barely more then a gasp of air.

Tristan's eyes shot up, scanning the fighters for the familiar flurry of limbs and swords that signalled Lancelot's presence.

_There._

Lancelot's blades flew faster than the eye could see, fighting off three opponents at once. But as he cut them down, five more took their place. They attacked ruthlessly, strike after strike, purposely leaving the knight little time to rest. Like the draw of a magnet, the fighters surged towards the knight, forcing him farther and farther away from the other Sarmatians and their commander. It had slipped the others' notice that he was slowly being surrounded, and cut off from his comrades.

"Come!" Tristan cried urgently to Galahad, whom he knew had realized what was happening moments before he had. Tristan tossed his bow over his shoulder, and swung down the strong branch of the hawthorn tree that the two had been crouching on. Dangling by his hands, Tristan released his grip and fell towards the ground. Dropping to a crouch, the scout allowed his knees to absorb the force of his considerable plunge. Galahad followed slightly slower, using the branches as handholds as he almost ran down the tree. The young knight dropped to the ground just in time to see Tristan's back disappear into the fighting throngs, and sprang after him.

Lancelot brushed his forehead with his wrist as he twirled around, the soft sound of his swords slicing through the air quickly halted by a wet slicing sound as they found their mark. His breath tore at his throat, but he kept it in check, and was only mildly annoyed when sweat dripped once again down into his eyes. Ignoring the salty sting, the knight ducked under another attack, and dealt a swift swing into the heart of another. He pushed away a quick jab from another foe, and pulled the first sword from the dead man's chest just in time to halt another thrust aimed at his throat.

He was losing, and Lancelot knew it.

From the beginning of the battle, he had felt the pressure upon him. At first, he had perceived this as an attempt on Arthur, and had vigorously fought his way back to his place in the formation. But then, as the battle continued, his horse had steadily drifted around the half-circle of knights until he was on the end. The other knights assumed he was doing this on purpose, and even Lancelot himself had not given it too much thought. After so many years, he trusted his instincts to get him through.

And then the assailants had pushed him further away, until Lancelot was out of Arthur and the knights' direct line of sight.

Someone was calling his name. He sidestepped another attack, and disemboweled the man directly in front of him, before crossing his swords and beheading another. More stepped into their place, and Lancelot found himself even more hard-pressed to block all the incoming attacks. Soon, he gave up attacking in return all together, and whirled and blocked, and ducked, and swiped aside each sword with his two. The voices calling him were closer now. Lancelot spared a hard-gotten moment of thought to wonder, panicked, how the other knights were faring. Were they all in this much trouble?

"Lancelot!" Galahad screamed, forcing his way through the waves of their opponents, towards the knight.

The knights' heads snapped up, immediately realizing what was happening. Those who hadn't already done so leapt off their horses, pushing and cutting their way through the swarm of fighters. But it was already too late.

"God," Arthur breathed, his eyes focused on his friend. His prayers seemed useless at the moment, and died on his lips. Tristan slipped past him, and Arthur quickly followed him through, towards his brother in all but blood. "Lancelot!" He yelled, ruthlessly slitting the throat of a man in his way.

Lancelot barely registered Arthur's cry, and when he had time to look up from the flurry of blades in front of him, he found himself quite a ways away, with the majority of their opponents between them.

In the moment it took Lancelot to glance up at Arthur, a sword was thrust at his chest in a deathblow. The knight swung both his blades up in a cross to block it, but the force of the blow pushed him sideways, and the hilt of a sword was driven against his head. Lancelot reeled in the moment of intense vertigo that followed. His vision blurring, he swung his blades in twin arcs, and managed to momentarily clear enough room in the swarm around him to fall back into his rhythm of fighting.

He was surrounded, he knew this, but refused to give up. His dark eyes gleamed with determination, and his face was set. He spun, cutting down one more and slicing another. Four more took their places, pressing forward, and closing in. Lancelot shoved forwards with his right blade, but it was caught and he was unable to tug it free from those that held it and his arm. He sprang out with his left blade, but it was soon captured in similar fashion. Lancelot struggled for all he was worth, lashing out, his grip on his weapons never waning.

With his twin blades, Lancelot could take on more then one opponent. Two, three, four…even he did not know his limit. But the sheer masses of fighters pressing down upon him now had even him drastically outnumbered.

The flat of a sword came into harsh contact with his already pounding head, and he fell forward as black rushed into his vision. He fell limply on the crushed, damp grass, clinging on to consciousness with the same fervor as those who still grasped his limp arms; effectively holding him down. Lancelot pushed his heavy lids open and focused on what lay immediately in front of him. Surprisingly, one blade of grass remained that was not trampled, a small living thing among the dead and lifeless. Lancelot concentrated on the one little blade, wavering in the air, as his vision swam, his hearing faded in and out, and a knee was pressed into his back.

Arthur cut those in front of him down. He had lost Lancelot in the crowd, and did not know if his knight still lived. A horrible, knowing pain held his heart in its fiery grasp. The thought of his lively, opinionated, passionate Lancelot lying on his back with his life's blood streaming out into the hungry British soil made Arthur feel horribly ill.

But he could not see the smirking face of his knight, usually so close by his side. His other knights fought nearby, killing more and more, but still none were close enough to Lancelot to help.

* * *


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

The knife placed against his neck was cold and sharp; Lancelot clamped his mouth shut and immediately stopped moving. Even immobile as he tried to be, the knight could not avoid breathing; the faint rise and fall of his chest and throat. The metal blade cut into his neck with every miniscule breath of life, the resulting crimson droplets were dark on Lancelot's fair skin. 

The knight had seen many throats slit. A swift jerk and the job was done. If it were done skilfully, it was an easy enough thing to do, with little restriction and nothing required but a sharp blade and a swift slice. If, however, someone not so experienced attempted it, the simple manoeuvre became messy, loud and inconveniently long. Before dying almost instantly of blood loss, the victim was forced to instead choke and gurgle on his own blood and watch his assailant attempt to complete his fumbled task.

Lancelot had performed many such procedures himself, and become almost expertly skilled at it and how to do it properly. He had gotten to the point where he was mostly not thinking as he pushed the head forward to slice through the then easily exposed veins and arteries. The victim would fall, eyes glazed and empty, their limbs limp and heavy. Their blood would spill on to the ground, and their life would drain away.

But now, as he knelt on the grass and tried to ignore the throbbing of his head in time with his heartbeat, and to forget the irritating trickle of blood sliding down his temple and neck, and to resist the rather insistent urge to vomit from the rather sudden decrease of adrenaline in his blood, he found it quite difficult not to think of it.

"Stop, Artorius."

The voice called out loud and commanding over the battlefield. The knights paused in confusion as those that they had been fighting stopped and backed away, giving them a clear view of the imprisoned Lancelot. Arthur first felt a wave of relief for his knight, but then he took a deep breath. Lancelot yet lived.

"Release him." Arthur shouted, his voice dark, darker then few of the knights had ever heard it.

"What was that?" The hooded man asked, pushing the blade harder against Lancelot's throat.

"Release him!" Arthur repeated, "It's me you want."

Lancelot forced his eyes up to meet Arthur's and looked steadily at him, despite the waves of dizziness that met him at this action.

A cold, deep laugh drifted out from beneath the hood, the figure never relaxing his grip on the knife at Lancelot's neck.

"Oh, do not worry, Great Artorius. I know what I want."

Lancelot breathed slowly, attempting to both stay alert and away from the blade. He could not see the cloaked figure above him, and so watched instead the faces of his comrades as they stood with their weapons out and ready, their stances poised for battle. Another numbing wave of dizziness assailed him, and his eyes fluttered shut. He could not fall. He would not fall. He pressed his eyes open once more, and fought against the grey waiting at the sides of his vision.

"So few, so very few. Whatever happened to the great force of the Sarmatian Knights? Then again, Artorius, your command was always very overrated."

"Who are you?" Arthur asked, his voice strong and imposing, but inside his heart wavered. Now that voice seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before?

That cold laugh again, harder this time. With the hand not holding the small blade at Lancelot's neck, he slowly raised fingers, and pushed the heavy hood off from over his features.

He wasn't as old as Arthur and the knights had thought. He was younger then Arthur, although it was difficult to tell by looks. His pale grey skin was weathered and his face was horribly scarred. One long, thick, uneven scar, a purplish-red at the middle ran down the left side of his face, obscuring his features and maiming his left eye. His other, working eye was dark and unreadable. His nose, obviously broken more then once, was flat and crooked. His hair dropped around his face in tangled and dirty dark brown tendrils.

Although marked and marred, beneath the scars the man's features held evidence that he had once had a handsome face, with a defined jaw and high cheekbones. And, perhaps the most shocking of all, those features, hidden and disguised by pain and time, were blindingly familiar to Arthur and his knights.

The Roman's mind went blank. Around him, the knights gasped in shock and horror.

"…But…" Galahad gasped, his face immediately pale. "…You're dead-"

"…Nathaniel…" The name slipped from between Arthur's lips before he could comprehend what was happening.

_Nathaniel. One of his Sarmatian knights._

Lancelot could not see the man above him, only the reaction of his companions. But at the name, oh at that name, the sharp knife placed firmly against his neck seemed to evaporate into nothingness, and he pulled away, snapping his head up to look at the man standing over him. His vision was blurring, and doubling, but even so, Lancelot recognized the tormented features instantly. Then he was reeling, falling through the air in a wave of vertigo so strong that the knight heard a rushing in his ears and before his cheek lay against the solid coolness of Britain's grass. He closed his eyes, tumbling still inside, over and over again, the face of the man above him ingrained in his mind.

But it wasn't the scarred, broken face of the present.

* * *

_"Who're you?"_

_Lancelot turned around; shifting his horse's reins to his other hand. A boy with brown curls almost down to his shoulders stood with crossed arms in front of him. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth a thin line. _

_"That's the worst sodding question I've ever heard." Lancelot spat at the boy, glaring at him._

_"And why's that?" The offending boy asked, raising an eyebrow in interest._

_"Because I've bloody known you since we were little."_

_"Lancelot, you ignorant prick, you ruin all my fun." The boy laughed, drawing near to him and clapping his hand on his shoulder, as affectionate as twelve-year-old boys could muster whilst holding on to their fragile masculinity._

_"Nathaniel, you bastard."_

_"Nice to see you too." He drawled, earning a glare from the nearby Roman officer. _

_Lancelot frowned at Nathaniel. "So they've taken you as well, have they? Who else from your tribe?" _

_"Leslier's boy. Runt of a kid, really. But I guess he fits the requirements. Oh, and Inertien. You know, that meaty boy. More of a threat with his bare hands then with a sword, but who's really going to care?" Nathaniel paused, watching Lancelot. "You were the only one from your tribe, right? Close as our tribes are, I haven't seen yours in a while. More girls than boys, though, correct?"_

_Lancelot looked away, staring over the green fields of his homeland as if he could see his family and friends still waving him goodbye. "I was the only one. My brothers are too young, and the other boys are too old."_

_Nathaniel's expression softened, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, Lancelot. It won't be that bad. Besides, when our services are done, we can come home and tell all our children and grandchildren marvellous stories of the feats of the brave Sir Lancelot." _

_Lancelot grinned. "And his faithful sidekick, the loyal Sir 'Thaniel."_

_"Bastard._

_"Prick."_

_"MOVE ON!" The Roman officer called to the group of boys. They mounted their horses, trotting after them towards Hadrien's Wall and towards their futures._

* * *

Fingers were in Lancelot's hair, pulling him harshly up from the grass. He felt very ill, swaying drunkenly, his neck at an odd angle where the man above him held him up solely by his hair, his knees protesting against the position. Then, there were fingers at his wrists, binding them together mercilessly. 

Quite suddenly, the fingers entwined in Lancelot's hair released, leaving him to slump to his knees with his head bowed. He had no strength, dizziness and pain quickly becoming his constant companions. He couldn't think, couldn't understand what was happening. One thing he was very sure of, however, was that this was definitely not the time nor place to vomit. Unfortunately his rather stubborn body deemed otherwise.

Just when he thought he had his nausea relatively under control, his stomach gave a violent roll, and Lancelot gagged before he could stop the reflexive motion. His arms wrenched behind his back in their ropes, and with barely the strength to stay on his knees, Lancelot choked and retched, sweat dripping down his forehead. He couldn't breathe; his whole body ached as it strained with each wracking cough. His head felt like someone was banging it quite incessantly with a mallet.

Finally, his breath coming in gasps, Lancelot felt back under control of his body, however temporary it might be. And that was when he remembered where he was.

_Oh bloody hell._

Lancelot wiped his mouth on his shoulder, wincing as the movement jarred his head. Forcing, with much effort, his eyes open, Lancelot found himself the centre of attention of quite a few people.

Lovely.

* * *

Arthur had known, likely even before the knight himself did, what Lancelot had been about to do. Fearing for his friend's safety from the sharp knife at his throat, an anxious cry had burst through his lips. But it was too late, and Lancelot was moving, the knife missing his pale skin by barely a hairsbreadth. He had watched, as had his other knights, in a moment of breathless apprehension as Lancelot stared up at his apprehender. Then, his eyes had abruptly rolled back into his head, and he had fallen limply to the grass. 

The arrows trained at his heart were barely enough to keep him from running forward to Lancelot's aide. Beside him, he could hear Galahad whispering in Sarmatian under his breath. Although one would assume that after this long living with Sarmatian knights that he would understand the language, Arthur did not. From the beginning, he had purposefully left the knights with this little bit of privacy and privilege as a testament to their homeland.

Arthur watched Lancelot's prone form with increasing amounts of worry. Copious amounts of time on the battlefield had taught him quickly that head wounds were not something to be taken lightly. They could be severe and often deadly, on occasion even leading to dementia that Arthur would not wish even on his enemies. And Lancelot did not seem to be well off. Concern wracked Arthur as he watched his best friend lie still against the ground, the gaping wound on his head slowly dripping down to be absorbed by the earth.

_Lord, please watch over him…_

Nathaniel let out a snarl of impatience, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around Lancelot's curls. With a swift jerk, he drew the man up onto his knees. Two of Nathaniel's fighters stepped forwards and wrenched Lancelot's arms behind his back, tying them together with thick rope. Arthur watched their faces. Who were they? How had his former knight gained such a following and what, _what _were his intentions? Their faces were expressionless, fading back to join the rest of their members without so much as a glance at their captive.

Lancelot sat, his head lolling. Suddenly, his body contracted, and he lent over and retched onto the grass. Arthur felt pangs of guilt as Lancelot painfully brought up what little was in his stomach. When had he last eaten? Arthur was embarrassed to realize that he couldn't remember seeing Lancelot have anything to eat since before Tennir's death. And he, his friend and commander, had not noticed.

Lancelot, finished and gasping for breath, pushed his eyes open in what seemed a great show of effort. Seeing Arthur, the knight quickly looked away, towards the ground.

"We thought you were dead." Arthur said, his voice dark, even to his own ears. His eyes shifted towards Nathaniel. "When you were captured by the Saxons, we followed you for three days."

"The Saxons declared you dead, and cast your body away. We were not able to find it." Tristan added, Kastrian beside him nodding his agreement. They had been there, been there when all hope for their friend and fellow knight had been lost.

_

* * *

_

_"They come." Kastrian whispered needlessly to Tristan. Tristan glanced at him dryly, and then looked back towards the glen below._

_The small group of Saxons entered the clearing below, talking loudly and gruffly to each other._ _Above, hidden in the trees, the two Sarmatian scouts listened carefully for news of Nathaniel. A shiver ran down Tristan's spine as one of them wiped his long, blood-smeared knife messily on his trousers. _

_"-he was barely worth the effort it took to take him."_

_"We should have killed him before."_

_"We had our fun, boys, what else do you want?"_

_There were chuckles of agreement. Above them, Kastrian and Tristan were still, almost forgetting to breathe. _

_"The information he gave us was useless. We knew it all already."_

_"How do we know he told us all he knew?"_

_"He did. We broke him; there was no resistance. He told us all he knew and then some."_

_"Sobbed like a baby, he did!"_

_There were more rough guffaws, sounding further away now as they passed from beneath the two scouts._

_"Rufeul, you report to Firus that the Sarmatian dog is taken care of." One of the Saxons nodded, walking ahead through the trees. The Saxon who had spoken before spoke up again. "He is no longer of this world."_

_The Saxons passed through the trees, their loud footsteps trailing off into the distance. For long moments after their sounds faded, the two scouts didn't move. They stayed in their crouched, silent positions, prone in stunned silence. Finally, Kastrian rolled over on the large branch and put his head in his hands._

_"He's dead than." He whispered, hardly daring to believe it._

_Tristan raised his head, and leant it against the trunk behind him, one leg dangling from the tree limb. "Yes."_

* * *

_When they entered the camp, all motion of the thirty-odd knights stilled, watching and waiting for news. Ignoring the anxious questions from the men, Kastrian and Tristan strode directly to Arthur. Their commander immediately stood up at their arrival, Lancelot rising beside him._

_"What news?" Arthur asked, his voice even, but distress and concern evident in his eyes._

_"Nathaniel is dead. The Saxons disposed of his body. We searched the area, but were not able to find it. They must have burned it." Tristan reported quietly, his eyes flicking only once from the ground at his feet._

_"NO!"_

_The scream came from Lancelot. The dark night turned, and kicked his horse's pack as far as he could. "You bastards! You bloody sodding bastards! Don't lie! He's not dead, he…he can't be!"_

_Arthur put up his hands in a motion of peace. Grief welled in his heart for his lost knight. He had known, if his fears were true, and Nathaniel could not be recovered, that Lancelot would take it poorly. The two had been close, knowing each other even in Sarmatia, or so he understood. But now, seeing his friend's pain and anguish was only making his own harder to bear._

_"Lancelot. Lancelot! He's gone, Lance." Arthur said softly, watching as Lancelot turned stubbornly away, still refusing to believe it._

_"No, no… 'Thaniel's still alive, he's waiting for us to come rescue him, we…we have to go!" The knight gestured wildly, his eyes wide and dark as midnight, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "We have to go save him."_

_Arthur watched his knight sadly, feeling a part of him break at his friend's grief. "Lancelot-"_

_"No!" The knight cried, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Suddenly, he whirled on the scouts. Kastrian found himself taking a step back from the restless knight. "This is your fault! You heard them wrong! You didn't look hard enough! If it wasn't for you, Nathaniel would be…"_

_Lancelot abruptly stopped his tirade, and turned around, away from the many watching eyes of his friends and comrades. His shoulders started to softly shake. Arthur took a few steps towards him, but Tristan held him back with a hand on his arm. The Roman glanced at the quiet scout, and was surprised at what he saw. Tristan was not angry, as Arthur had expected him to be, at Lancelot's accusing words. A look of sadness was on his face and in his eyes, and Arthur immediately understood. Lancelot had to be alone._

_Lancelot walked out of the clearing, away from his fellow knights and his commander. Once away, and out of sight and sound from the others, Lancelot sat down on a fallen log and sobbed._

_

* * *

_

"I did not die. I was beaten, tortured and wounded, and then left for dead by both my friends and my enemies." Nathaniel spat. "You did not come, Arthur. You swore to protect us! On the day that you became our commander, you said that if we served you with loyalty and respect, you would treat us with the same." The man paused, his good right eye glaring at the Roman with unspeakable hatred. "You betrayed me, Castus."

Arthur stared at him, understanding dawning on him, but disbelief still fresh in his mind.

Tristan stood silently on the edge of the group. Behind Lancelot, Nathaniel's fighters were scattered unevenly. None were at the same angle as the scout, and so none could see what Tristan was able to. It was with a small measure of frank interest that Tristan saw one of the wounded knight's hands slip into the top of his boot. It was with amusement that the scout saw him pull a small knife out of its place of hiding. Tristan watched as Lancelot, with no change to the weak knight's face, started to manoeuvre the blade into a position in which it could slice his bonds.

Galahad spoke up, his voice strained but honest. "We reported you to the Romans as dead. Why didn't you go home? Home to Sarmatia?"

Nathaniel laughed once more, his voice cold. "I did. And let me tell you what I found. My village, burned, the tents and carts smouldering remains. The grass was brown, dead and dying under my feet, the sky a grey and brown wasteland of smoke. My family was dead and mutilated on the ground, their bodies rotting in the open, free for any wandering beasts. There were no bodies of the women andchildren. The women and girls, I can tell you what happened to them. Prizes, trophies, whores for the Saxons. And the children, the children sold as slaves."

Lancelot tilted his head to the side, and squinted up at Nathaniel as best as he was able. His voice was quiet and slightly slurred, but he spoke nonetheless.

"Are you sure you were looking in the right place? Our people are nomadic, you know. ...We tend to move."

Nathaniel growled. In one sudden movement, he backhanded Lancelot harshly across the face. There was a cry of outrage from the other knights and Arthur. Lancelot hung his head loosely in front of him, fighting for each breath.

Tristan winced. When Lancelot's body had jerked as he'd been hit, the knife in his weak fingers had slipped. In a reflex attempt to catch it, his hands had both clasped directly around the sharp blade. Tristan could see a steady stream of blood drip out from around the knife in the knight's hands, but Lancelot was too momentarily stunned to release his grip. Slowly, his head still bowed; Lancelot carefully twisted the knife upwards. It slipped and slid in his grip, the blood acting frustratingly as grease.

Nathaniel slowly leaned down towards the knight, bringing his face very near to Lancelot's. The knight didn't flinch, but stilled his attempts with the knife.

"Your tribe was never very far from mine, was it?" Nathaniel whispered loudly, loud enough for Arthur and the rest to hear. "How old would your sister be now, I wonder? Twenty and two years? She'd be pretty, wouldn't she? Long blonde hair...those dark eyes so similar to yours." Nathaniel brought his face even closer to Lancelot's, so that the knight could feel the other's hot, putrid breath on his ear, and was hard-pressed not to move away. "I wonder how many Saxon beds she warmed before they killed her?"

Lancelot's eyes narrowed dangerously, his veins filling with passionate fury. In one swift swipe, he slashed his bonds, his shakiness causing him to accidentally catch his wrist in the process. But then he sprang upwards with what little strength he had, aiming the small knife at Nathaniel's throat. Nathaniel knocked the knife out of Lancelot's grip, the small blade falling useless to the crushed grass below. He wrapped his hand around Lancelot's slim wrist, and wrenched it behind the knight'sback. Lancelot was forced to his knees with a muffled cry of pain, his arm pulled almost to its breaking point.

"RELEASE HIM!" Arthur bellowed, taking a few unconscious steps forwards. The archers watching him pulled their bows taught, each arrowhead trained on the Roman. Arthur paused, watching Lancelot as he writhed in Nathaniel's hold on the ground. "Stop!"

"I'll be taking your knight, Arthur." Nathaniel informed him. "Will you forsake him as you did me? He always was your favourite." He signalled the men behind him, and they surged forward, taking Lancelot from his control. Lancelot fought as best he could, struggling against his captors. But they overtook him, retying the bounds on his wrists, tighter this time.

The scarred man unsheathed his sword and turned to Lancelot. The weak knight glared at him through glazed eyes, defiant to the last. Nathaniel raised his sword to his former friend, and brought it swiftly down.

"NO!" Arthur shouted, but it was too late. The blade was sailing through the air and Lancelot was helpless to avoid it. In the last moment, he turned the sword to the side, and knocked Lancelot over the head. The knight crumpled to the grass, unconscious.

Nathaniel turned back to Arthur with a shrug. "Even gagged and bound like a fated hog, he's still bloody annoying."

Suddenly, Galahad was pressing forward, held back only by a wary Gawain, who's eyes were on the archers trained on them. Galahad barely noticed however, his eyes smouldering and glaring intently at Nathaniel.

The furious words that slipped from his mouth were not in the English that had slowly become the knight's basic language for the past thirteen years. Seeing this old ally, this man who came from the same nation as he, but so betrayed his friends and people, Galahad found himself shouting at him in Sarmatian.

The young knight's voice rose in a colourful but thorough string of Sarmatian curses, involving Nathaniel, his mother, a few animals, and their respective genetalia. He leaned forward, trying to force himself past Gawain and now Kastrian who were holding him back. He fell easily back into his native language, the coarse words slipping past his tongue with little resistance. Finished insulting Nathaniel's relatives and bloodlines, Galahad moved on to more pressing matters.

_"- HOW DARE YOU? I'LL KILL YOU, YOU DIRTY BASTARD! YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO YOUR FAMILY AND YOUR TRIBE, I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE YOU-"_

Nathaniel laughed, his cold, dark chuckle stilling Galahad's words in his throat. The knight froze, as Nathaniel continued. _"Little Galahad, you still cling hopefully to childhood, don't you? Aye, Gawain is not your mother, and neither is Arthur. It must have been a nice thought, however, that your words would mean anything to me. Grow up, Little Galahad. Don't worry, it won't last for long. I'm surprised you haven't got yourself killed yet."_ He paused, a smirk quirking over his marred features. _"But how many friends?."_

The Sarmatian words seemed just as familiar to Nathaniel, meeting no resistance as he remembered the words from his homeland. A few of the men behind him laughed as well, leading the knights to believe that they as well knew the language. Galahad glared, his dark hair falling over his forehead and eyes as he tried to struggle past his friends. The knights glowered at them all; seething with barely suppressed anger.

Arthur's gaze skipped between Lancelot's prone form, and the exchange between the Sarmatians. A few words jumped out at him, mostly names and some familiar curses from Galahad's contribution, but the majority of what was said he did not understand at all.

Finally, Nathaniel turned back to Arthur. "Farewell, Castus." He gave a brief, unimportant glance to the knights. _"The Gods will be watching."_

Nathaniel backed up, and swirled up onto his horse, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his scarred face. He paused, bringing his gloved hand up to his forehead in an abrupt mock salute. He whirled around, his dark cloak billowing out behind him. He watched as Lancelot was slung over an empty saddle, then tied roughly in place with thick rope. Then he was off, flying away, his soldiers fleeing as well, bearing Lancelot, and leaving Arthur and his knights unguarded.

As soon as the offending arrows were moved, the knights and Arthur charged forward, but they were much too late. Nathaniel and his fighters had disappeared into the brush.

"Should we follow them immediately?" Brydan asked, staring after the party through the trees.

"No." Arthur said gruffly, his eyes shadowed and his face drawn.

* * *

(Note: Italics in the middle of a section without quotations indicate thoughts. Italics in quotations indicates that thecharacter is speaking in Sarmatian. Entire passages in italics seperated by lines from the usual text indicates a flashback sequence. Sorry for any confusion, but this site limits the resources that you can use.)


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

"Is it still a trap if they tell us about it?" Gawain asked curiously, straightening his saddle. Although his words were light, the blonde knight's eyes lacked humour.

Aidron shot him a silencing glare, before glancing pointedly over to where Arthur stood, back turned, staring at the trees that Nathaniel had disappeared through.

After Arthur showed no immediate signs of having any intention of moving, the knights sat together on the hard ground, their cloaks wrapped around them against the chill.

The silence grew until the only noise the wind rustling through the trees. And now, ever present, was the gnawing knowledge that Lancelot was in Nathaniel's hands.

"All this time." Kastrian said slowly, thrusting his head in his hands. "He's been alive all this time."

Suddenly, Bors roared. He stood up, kicking a fallen log vehemently. "That traitorous son of a BITCH!" He threw up his arms and screamed angrily at the unforgiving grey sky above.

"It's not his fault." Tristan said quietly, from where he sat, a little apart, cleaning the blood from a small knife that had lain discarded in a pool of blood after Lancelot and Nathaniel had left.

Brydan whirled on the scout, his knife at the man's throat without a second thought. "What do you bloody well mean?"

"Get off of him." Dagonet growled, pulling Brydan away. The twin stood there, seething, his knife twitching in his hands.

"Would you like a go at Lancelot too, than?" Brydan spat at Tristan. Aidron, alert and angry, stood behind his brother defensively.

Tristan squinted calmly up at the twin, his hands stilling on the blade that he was cleaning. "It isn't his fault what he did. He is sick, his mind is ill. He is not responsible for his actions, or whom he has become."

"Than who the hell is?" Galahad asked furiously.

Tristan was the only one who noticed one of Arthur's shoulders twitch at Galahad's words. He frowned mentally, but his face remained a mask of indifference. He continued the present conversation. "The Saxons. They're the ones that tortured him continuously for three days and murdered his family. The Romans may have taken him away from his home, but it was the Saxons who destroyed it." Tristan paused, looking back down to the small knife in his hands. "He no longer has anything to live for, and his mind is misplacing his anger, and forcing it on Arthur. Nathaniel is broken. It could have been any one of us."

"But why did he take Lancelot?" Kastrian asked bluntly, aware that as soon as he spoke the words the air seemed to become thicker and harder to breathe.

"You sodding bastard," Bors growled, but his expression was soft. "Arthur would follow Lancelot through the gates of hell to bring him back."

Nothing more had to be said. Every single knight knew that nothing would cause Arthur more agony then seeing his best friend held captive, paying for Arthur's sins with his own blood.

The silence resumed, the knights staring at various illegitimate things. Wind swept through the trees, raising gooseflesh on the backs of the knights' exposed necks.

Arthur turned around abruptly. "Do you agree with Nathaniel? Do you think I betrayed him?" His face was haggard, drawn with anguish.

"No." Dagonet answered immediately. "We did the best we could. They had him guarded day and night. There was no way to save him. We tried, for as long as we could. We failed, but not for fault of our commander."

Arthur closed his eyes. "I hope Lancelot knows that as well."

"Aye. Lancelot was close to Nathaniel." Galahad insisted. "But he was closer to you."

* * *

Lancelot woke to a blinding headache. With each new wave of agony, it was accompanied by an insisting surge of nausea. He lay on the ground, of that he was certain, assured that it was the world around him spinning, and not the damp earth beneath him. He tried to take an inventory of his hurts, but his head made that difficult. He could not feel his hands. That was a concern. He couldn't feel his lower arms either. After a moment of intense confusion, Lancelot realised that his wrists were still bound, and he was lying awkwardly on them. Lovely.

Keeping his eyes determinedly closed; Lancelot slipped through consciousness in a haze of disoriented illness.

Somewhere above him, he heard a slightly familiar voice, but couldn't place its owner. It was quiet and muffled, almost like Lancelot was hearing it from underwater. "Oh, for the Gods' sake, would someone wrap his hands?"

Lancelot felt himself being turned over, his arms springing back into feeling with the sharp prick of a thousand needles eating his flesh. He was unable to silence the groan the escaped his lips, and was forced to open his eyes and commit to awareness.

Lancelot blinked, and the blurred form of someone above him came in to view. Someone was wrapping his hands clumsily in strips of cloth. Shaking his head was a bad idea; Lancelot soon learned, and squeezed his eyes shut once more. When he opened his eyes again the form above him took on shape.

_Nathaniel_.

Oh bloody hell.

Nathaniel leaned down, his one good eye smirking at Lancelot. "Good morning."

"Fuck you." Lancelot greeted, deciding that squinting hurt, and so ceasing to do so.

_"What kind of 'hello, Nathaniel, haven't seen you in a while, how are you?' is that?"_ Nathaniel asked, slipping back into Sarmatian.

"_The one bastards get."_ Lancelot grilled through clenched teeth.

_"I hate Arthur. Not you."_

"_You are no longer the person I knew."_ Lancelot spat, then groaned as the world gave a great spin. "_And I suppose my head was just a welcoming present."_

_"I needed Arthur to follow me. If he were to walk into certain death for anyone, it would be you."_ Nathaniel said, looking away through the trees. When he looked back, his one good eye was dark, a dangerous spark in it. "_I do not doubt his love for you. You were brothers when I left, I knew that you'd be brothers when I returned. Every battle calls for sacrifice. You know that, Lancelot. It was you who told me that."_

_"Why this? Where did you get your men?"_

"_There are more people angry with the Romans than just the Woads, Lance. How many different peoples have lost land and family to the Holy Roman Empire? Some Sarmatians are just as frustrated as I am. Rebels, they are, their tribes are gone and they have nowhere else to turn."_

In a flash, Lancelot remembered the leather armband that the unknown scout they had captured had worn. Lancelot had known that he'd recognised the style and pattern of the inscription from somewhere deep in his memory. A long time ago, before the Romans had taken him, a friend of his fathers had own a similar piece. In one of their neighbouring tribes an old man had been skilled at carefully inscribing delicate words and pictures upon the course material, and his father's friend had traded for it.

Lancelot strained his aching mind. Although he couldn't remember the exact words, the knight knew that the inscription spoke of the winding road to peace and love, and the fierce loyalty and love of Sarmatians. That was why the scout had brutally marked his out. He no longer followed the ways of Sarmatian life. By rebelling against his homeland, he had broken away from the traditional way of life. The band on his wrist reminding him the ideals and values that he had once believed and followed must have mocked him, leading him to slash them out with his blade.

_"How could you do something like this? You used to be our ally."_

_"Aye. I did. Things change Lancelot. Arthur betrayed me. Everyone betrayed me."_ Nathaniel paused, his eye boring deep into Lancelot's heart. "_You betrayed me, friend."_ The last word was twisted, with almost laughing cruelty.

Lancelot ignored him. His mind was spinning; he felt sick. It was a long while before he spoke again. "You are no friend of mine." Lancelot murmured finally in English. "And I never betrayed you." With that, he slipped back into unconscious.

* * *

_"Where have you been?" Nathaniel asked impatiently, blocking Lancelot's way through the corridor with his arm braced against the opposite wall._

_"With Arthur. He's teaching me to read in English. It's complicated, you know. Not at all how it sounds." Lancelot explained calmly, frowning as to why Nathaniel was so angry. "Why, what's wrong?"_

_"You were supposed to come spar with me this afternoon. But I suppose you forgot. Again." Nathaniel said, glaring at the other boy. There was some unknown emotion in his eyes that made Lancelot uneasy._

_"Oh," Lancelot exclaimed in sudden realisation. "I forgot, 'Thaniel, I'm sorry. I was just in Arthur's quarters, and-"_

_"You spend an awful lot of time in there."_

_Lancelot's eyes narrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"_

_"It means he's a Roman, Lancelot! He's the reason we're here! He's the enemy, remember?" Nathaniel shouted, his dark brown eyes blazing with fury._

_"It's not Arthur's fault we're here! He's just assigned as our commander!" Lancelot yelled back, his temper just a match for the other boy's._

_"So you're his friend, are you?" Nathaniel sneered._

_"Yes!" Lancelot exclaimed, spreading his hands. "He's not that bad, if you really get to know him-"_

_"So that's how it is, is it? He's your 'friend'. I should have known that's why you're always with him, and in his quarters, with the door shut. Obviously it's not your leadership and fighting skills that have made you Arthur's favourite knight."_

_Lancelot growled, pushing Nathaniel up against the wall. His hands were clenched in the rough fabric of Nathaniel's tunic. "Shut the bloody hell up. It's not like that. We're just friends." Lancelot said, his voice dark. "And you're a stupid prick if you think otherwise."_

_"So we all just fade into the background, as you become friends with the mighty Arthur?" Nathaniel spat. "We're not good enough for you, is that it, Lance?_

_"No! I'm still friends with all of you, I'm just friends with Arthur too, that's all!" Lancelot insisted, searching Nathaniel's face for understanding. "You know we'll always be friends, right 'Thaniel?"_

_Nathaniel sighed, a small smile coming on his face. "Of course, Lance. But don't hang around Arthur too much. I don't trust him."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Because he's Roman, Lancelot, that's why. And I make it a practice of disliking Romans."_

_"Give him a chance, 'Thaniel. He's not like other Romans."_

_Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Lance. The other's are already at the round table. We're late, they've likely already served diner." He grinned, starting away down the hall._

_"It's all about food with you, isn't it?"_

_Nathaniel laugh echoed down the corridor. Lancelot started to follow him, then suddenly froze._

_He had placed what that unknown emotion in Nathaniel's eyes had been._

_Jealously._

_

* * *

_

"They're not moving." Tristan explained to Arthur, Kastrian by his side. "They haven't moved all day. I think they're waiting for us."

"They think we'll charge in. Like we used to do, when we still had enough of us to do so. That is Nathaniel's disadvantage. He thinks he can predict us, know our plans, know our formations, and know what we are going to do before we do it. But his information is outdated." Arthur mused to the knights. He paused, gathering his thoughts into a plan. "He thinks we'll burst in, and try to take Lancelot by force. He's planned for that, with his large numbers and weapons."

"Sneak in." Dagonet nodded. "They won't be expecting stealth. If we do it without their knowledge, they won't know what we've done until we've got Lancelot."

"Effectively removing Nathaniel's bargaining chip." Brydan added. "Without Lancelot, Nathaniel has nothing to hold us back."

"And then we charge in and kill the bastard." Bors said, a look of excitement growing on his face. "Right?"

Arthur nodded his grim expression cracking for the first time since Nathaniel's return. "Right."

_Hold on, Lancelot._

_

* * *

_

Lancelot bent over, vomiting painfully onto the dirt below. Nathaniel sat nearby, watching with an expression of complete indifference on his face. His presence wasn't the most comforting to Lancelot, who, over the past few hours, had become much more aware of his surroundings, and honestly wasn't that impressed with them.

All of Nathaniel's fighters were spread out through the trees at various intervals, watching and waiting for Arthur. Only Nathaniel and one other man stayed back with Lancelot. The man apparently was acting as a guard, and sat a few feet away on a fallen log.

Lancelot knelt on the pine needle covered forest floor, gasping for breath, and waiting for his head to decrease slightly in agony. If he had learned nothing else from this experience, he had learned that throwing up when one's hands were bound behind one's back was a task not to be underestimated. Bloody difficult, that. Oh, and having an audience while you did so was also greatly unpleasant. Especially an audience who felt inclined to comment every so often.

"Attractive."

Lancelot spit onto the dirt, before glancing up at Nathaniel. He neatly wiped his mouth on his shoulder. "Thank you." He said simply. He sat back on the ground, his eyes closing tiredly. He opened them with determination once more. "I think the overall beauty of it might be increased drastically if you untied my hands."

Nathaniel contemplated his weak, shivering form for a minute. "I don't trust you not to try to kill me."

"Neither would I." Lancelot agreed. "Regardless, untie me."

"You'll likely try to kill me."

"Aye. But isn't that what he's for?" Lancelot asked, nodding his head to where the guard sat a few feet away.

"If I untie you, what would you give me in return?'

"Nothing."

"I propose a bargain." Nathaniel said simply, raising his arm and inspecting his glove for marks or tears. "You help me get revenge on Arthur, and I'll untie you."

For a rare moment, Lancelot was speechless. But in a flash, his shock turned to raw anger. "I will not turn on Arthur." He growled his voice low and dark.

"Arthur's against you, Lancelot. He's always been against all of us. His loyalty lies with Rome, not with you."

"That's not true!" Lancelot yelled, his dark eyes daggers of hate. "Arthur would never harm any of us. We did search for you, 'Thaniel. We tried to save you until the Saxons declared you dead!"

"Tell me Lancelot," Nathaniel stood, his voice loud to Lancelot's ears. "Tell me when you heard that I was dead, did you not blame Arthur. Did you not know then, deep in your heart that Arthur wants nothing more then to be rid of all of us?"

Lancelot turned away, his face unreadable. "I blamed many that day."

"And now, would you forsake your oldest friend for a foolish Roman officer?"

"You are not the friend I once knew."

"You would turn on a member of your homeland to protect a Roman." It wasn't a question.

"He's my friend now, 'Thaniel, not you!" Lancelot screamed, his throat burning and head pounding. "My loyalty lies with him now! Him and the other knights! You are a traitor! _Traitor_!" The last word slipped into Sarmatian of its own accord. The thick word was loud and out of place in the cool air.

Silence. It slowly spread through the forest, covering everything like a heavy cloak of fog.

Without a word, Nathaniel leant forward and with a quick flick of his wrist, a knife appeared in his hand. Lancelot didn't move, his body still and his eyes watching the Sarmatian across from him.

Suddenly, Nathaniel jerked forwards. Lancelot closed his eyes reflexively, expecting to soon feel the cold metallic pain of the knife in his skin. Instead, there was an abrupt snapping sound.

With a rush of unaccustomed motion, his arms were released from their tight holds. Lancelot let out a sigh of relief as the tension in his shoulders suddenly released. Then came the pain. He bit his lip as circulation came rushing back to his arms, hands and fingers. Slowly, he brought his arms around to the front, the motion feeling agonisingly unusual.

Lancelot didn't know what he had been expecting when he looked upon his hands once more, but it hadn't been what he found. The rope had cut a groove in his wrists, surrounded by abrasions from the harsh rope. His wrists were slick with blood. His hands, shaking uncontrollably, were rudely wrapped in some nondescript grey cloth, soaked through with blood. He temporarily tried to straighten his hands from the reflexive curl they had stiffened in, but the sharp rush of pain told him the slices on his palms were not nearly healed yet. His fingers were dark and bluish from the lack of circulation, and Lancelot tried once more to move them but failed.

Looking up from his hands, Lancelot jerked in surprise. Nathaniel stood above him, the look on his scarred face murderous. Suddenly, Nathaniel backhanded him across the face. Lancelot swayed, than collapsed in the dirt. His already bruised and battered head felt his own heartbeat like the beats of a drum. As the darkness closed in over and around him, Lancelot heard Nathaniel's voice above him, slipping back into Sarmatian, his words cold and decisive.

_"So be it. I will kill you as well."_

* * *


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

Arthur slipped through the foliage, Tristan silent behind him. He prayed under his breath for Lancelot, begging God to keep his knight from harm. He stepped carefully over a twig, avoiding the noise it would cause if it broke, and was suddenly irrationally concerned that the pounding of his heart must be heard by all within a twelve mile radius. He heard voices, the rustling of soled feet against the hard-packed dirt of the forest floor, and the rustling of branches and leaves thrust out of place.

Nathaniel and his men.

Arthur crouched down behind a large bush, hesitantly brushing some of the long green tendrils aside and peered through. He could see the warriors, lined up on the opposite side of the small clearing. Arthur looked away from the armed men, and searched for Lancelot. The Roman felt a surge of relief, seeing his knight's familiar slender, curly-haired form. But with a jolt of sick realisation, Arthur noticed the paleness of his knight's face against his dark hair and the smear of blood on his cheek. He noticed the limp way Lancelot's fingers splayed over the dirt, thick with dirt and blood streaming down from his torn wrists. He noticed the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, how his body seemed to fight for every next breath. And, Arthur noticed how his closest friend, his first knight and unofficial second in command, lay curled motionless in the dirt, unconscious and close to death at the hands of his former companion, and Arthur's former knight.

* * *

_"Your report?" Arthur asked, turning in his chair and leaning back expectantly. He faced battle and death everyday, but the Roman commander was certain that it was paperwork that would bring him at last to meet his God._

_As the door to Arthur's chambers stood two dark- haired knights, their eyes bright and their cheeks flushed with the eagerness of youth. Arthur watched them with a growing sense of dread. He really hadn't paired these two together for scouting duty, had he? He must have been quite tired that day. There was no way in his right mind that Arthur would place Nathaniel and Lancelot together on a shift, give them horses and weapons, and let them loose on the British countryside._

_"Well, there isn't much to report, Sir," Nathaniel started out, impishly brushing his long curls off his forehead._

_"Yes. Really quite boring." Lancelot continued, his eyes purposefully on Arthur, pointedly not looking at his companion._

_Arthur sighed. He'd had his knights for barely a month, nay, a few weeks at the most. And he was already regretting his decision to accept his promotion to commander. Honestly, the problems a hundred young Sarmatian knights can cause when unleashed in a previously calm fort are not to be underestimated. These two in particular were a headache, and the gaggle of younger boys that followed them around in wide-eyed admiration, worshipping their every deed were as well. It was enough for Arthur to want to rip out his hair by the roots._

_"Alright, take a seat, the both of you." Arthur motioned towards the two chairs against his wall. The two knights glanced at each other. The Roman could have sworn an entire conversation was exchanged in that moment. God, please deliver him from evil and young boys with swords._

_He stood, with a last despairing look at the sheets of parchment on his desk. He strode over to stand in front of the two young men. For some reason unbeknownst to Arthur, he suddenly felt like a school matron, delivering a lecture to her misbehaving pupils._

_"What did you two do?"_

_"There were no problems, Sir. We set out this morning, as were our orders, and scouted the area we were told to." Nathaniel started._

_Lancelot picked up immediately where Nathaniel left off, without missing a beat. "We came upon no Woads, Sir, or any other personages of questionable activities."_

_Arthur raised his eyebrows at the perfectly conceived and conducted report. He had the sudden urge to laugh at Lancelot's unexpected but impeccably correct choice of words, but held himself back._

_"Well, it seems that you two had a completely uneventful morning." Arthur comment, drifting over to a nearby side table and running his fingers deftly across some of the pieces on display. His turned back and the lack of attention had given the two young men a chance to glance at each other once more, smirks of victory appearing on their faces._

_"Except for the fact that the report you just gave was complete and utter horseshit."_

_It was well worth the rather blatant breach of officer conduct to see the look of astounded disbelief and shock momentarily on their faces. "We all now know that your talents are wasted in the Roman army, and you should instead be training as theatre players, but the point remains that there is what I'm assuming to be a distinctly more interesting report for me to hear."_

_Arthur leaned against his desk, crossing his arms in expectation._

_Lancelot blinked, turning to Nathaniel, who looked just as at loss for words. After a moment of war between the two, Lancelot turned back to Arthur._

_"Well...what we said did leave out certain...details." Lancelot started slowly his eyes now danced on the roof, the floor, the wall, the fire, anywhere but Arthur's face._

_"We came upon a group of Woads, a bit suddenly." Nathaniel admitted bluntly._

_"We knew we were supposed to return to the fort and report immediately about their presence..." Lancelot said sheepishly, now inspecting the dirt under his fingernails._

_"But they had already seen us." Nathaniel continued, getting to the thick of the story. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "So, there was nothing we could to but attack them."_

_Arthur was struck dumb with shock. He was at complete and utter loss for words. "You...Attacked them."_

_Good God._

_"Well, yes. But it was only a small group of them." Lancelot said quickly, failing in his attempt to downplay the incident._

_"How many were there?" Arthur felt numb. Knights weren't supposed to do things like this._

_"Erhm. Five or six..." Lancelot trailed off, wincing at the look on Arthur's face. The young knight shifted in his seat._

_"WHAT?"_

_Nathaniel frowned, propping his chin up on his arm. "We're, uh, alive, of course. We won, and all that. But I guess that's not important." He stated needlessly._

_"Two Knights, who have been in their service for only a number of days, willingly took on six trained, experienced Woad warriors." Arthur said. His voice sounded weak with disbelief. Nathaniel and Lancelot glanced at each other. "And won."_

_There was a long silence, in which Arthur abruptly sat down at his desk. Lancelot stared at the wall, and Nathaniel played with a small knife he'd pulled out of his pocket._

_"All right then." Arthur said finally, a look of extreme tiredness on his face. "Well done. See you at dinner."_

_The eighteen-year-old Roman commander stood, opened the door, and disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps fading away down the hallway._

_The two sixteen year old knights were left in the empty room, with the paperwork fluttering into disorder on the desk from the draft through the door as it swung shut._

* * *

Arthur felt Tristan's hand on his arm. No words were shared. None needed to be.

Nathaniel stood far on the other side of the small clearing. His back was turned to them, talking with one of his men. There was no one else near them, except for a lone guard who stood nearby Lancelot with a look of complete boredom on his face. Arthur smirked, but without humour. That would soon be taken care of.

The wind rustled through the high trees, their tips seemingly just inches away from touching the thick grey clouds of the overcast sky. A bird fluttered up from the branches of a nearby tree, soaring up and away into the clouds. The hawk's cry was shrill against the whistle of the wind.

_The signal._

On the other side of the clearing, on the other side of the wall of fighters, there was a roar of hooves pounding against the forest floor. Branches were crushed beneath the powerful hooves, treading footprints an inch deep into the dirt. In a deafening crash of foliage, the horse sprang out of a screen of vines; its front legs landing once more with a shuddering thud. The behemoth, dark brown horse was not alone, however. On it's back perched an equally as large man, his head bald and his mouth suddenly opening in an ear-splitting bellow that echoed though the woods.

Nathaniel leapt back as the horse roared past, directly in front of the line of fighters. From one end of the clearing to the other, staying within a few feet of the armed men the whole time. By the time the men reacted, the demon horse and its rider were past their flailing blades. Arrows swept past on either side, missing their mark every time.

On the other side of the clearing, things happened very fast. The guard turned, and a knife thudded into the middle of his back, just beneath his shoulder blades. Arthur was on the other side of the bush even before the knife had completely left Tristan's hand. In one swift moment, he swept one arm under Lancelot's arms, one under his legs, and hefted him up against his chest. He almost lost his balance, as he realised that he had seriously overestimated how much his knight weighed. The Roman felt a wave of guilt once more that he had not better realised Lancelot's lack of eating and sleep after Tennir's death.

Arthur was tearing through the underbrush, Lancelot in his arms, the knight's curly head braced against his shoulder. Tristan was before him, clearing a path as best he could with a knife while running. Arthur's breath caught in his lungs, but he ran onwards, forcing his grip on his burden to remain secure, even though sweat ran down his forehead and his arms screamed in pain at the overuse. It was a good thing, then, surprisingly, that Lancelot weighed so little. Much more, and Arthur doubted he would be able to carry him near as far. His footsteps were loud on the forest floor, and Arthur wasn't sure if he was able to hear the crash of pursuers, or if that was just the noise he was making himself. Tristan, the annoying sod, still managed to be making less noise then a bloody mouse.

Behind them, they heard Bors silence his incessant yelling, apparently having run out of breath, and the racket of the horse and the shouting men had dimmed now that they were further away.

Suddenly, familiar faces, their hands reaching out and pulling Lancelot from his arms, surrounded him. The knights. Resisting the urge to cling his friend to his chest defensively, Arthur let go of his charge. As Lancelot was taken from him, Arthur felt quite light-headed at the lack of weight on his chest that he had become to accustomed to. Blinking it away, and shaking his head softly, Arthur dropped to Lancelot's side.

"Dear God..." Arthur muttered. Lancelot looked pale and sick as death. Aside from bruises, scrapes, abrasions and other various hurts, blood streamed unevenly from a thick cut on Lancelot's scalp.

_His head wound_.

Dagonet pressed a wad of cloth against the open wound to slow the bleeding, his face still.

Gawain's palm was on Lancelot's forehead. "Arthur...he burns."

Arthur placed the back of his hand gently against his knight's bruised cheek, and was startled at the heat it gave off. Lancelot was waking from unconsciousness, but slowly, very slowly. Arthur didn't think he was aware yet, as he turned his head limply from side to side, trying to get away from the inferno inside of him. Galahad had his hand on Lancelot's shoulder, keeping him from rolling over in unaware agitation.

Arthur leant down, feeling the life-beat in the pale, almost translucent skin at Lancelot's neck. It was there, but it was slow and weak.

Arthur lifted one of Lancelot's hands, and after gently running a finger over the deep grooves in his wrists from the rope, he slowly started to unbind the blood-soaked grey wrappings on his palms. As the wet, dirty fabric fell away, it showed the red slice down the center of Lancelot's right palm, almost from the base of his middle finger to the pads on the bottom of his palm. Laying it purposefully on the ground, his brow furrowing, Arthur picked up the other hand, unwrapped it, and inspected it as well. It had a similar slice, identical to its mate.

"What could this be from?" Arthur asked, somewhere between confusion and anger.

"He had a knife, when he was first bound. He tried to cut his bonds, but when he was hit helost his grip on the knife." Tristan supplied, from a little ways away, watching for Bors.

Arthur paused, his emotions in turmoil. He re-wrapped Lancelot's hands, this time doing it tight enough to still the blood flow, but not tight enough to restrict circulation. As Arthur touched the freezing, bluish fingers, hedecided that enough of that had been done.

Bors returned in a flurry of stomping hooves and leaves. There was a look of utter pride on his broad face.

"Enjoy that, did you?" Kastrian asked dryly from the place he had taken beside Tristan.

"Aye, but I think Deynas did more, didn't you, you wonderful little bastard?" Bors crooned softly, leaning over his mount and patting his horse tenderly on it's cheek. Than he paused, sliding down to the ground and coming over to where Lancelot lay, his mood much more sombre. "How's the lad?"

Arthur looked up briefly, but then looked back once more to the hand he was wrapping. "He's alive."

"Is that enough?" Bors asked, his words containing none of the sarcastic wittiness they usually did.

"It has to be." Arthur answered.

"He's coming." Tristan's voice was quiet and calm, as if he were announcing nothing but the weather. He didn't have to say whom he referred to.

Lancelot chose that moment to come into wakefulness. He gazed up through bleary and unfocused eyes at those leaning over him. The realisation that he was safe once more, and away from captivity and Nathaniel was joined swiftly by the overwhelming need to be sick.

"...Urk..." Lancelot gulped helpfully, squeezing his eyes shut against the waves of vertigo.

Galahad, realising what was happening, helped the wounded knight turn on to his side, and held him up as he retched dryly onto the ground, keeping him from collapsing.

Arthur stood, drawing Excalibur from its sheath and holding it high. His knights stood around him, baring their weapons, ready to protect themselves, their commander, and their wounded friend.

Nathaniel stepped from the trees. Behind him, his fighters faded into the forest.

"So what now, Artorius?" Nathaniel asked, his voice cold. His hood was drawn over his head.

"Now this ends." Arthur growled, his eyes furious and his brow drawn.

"So it does." Nathaniel allowed, quietly. His eye sparkled. Arthur knew, then, that this would end in death. What he didn't know was whose.

* * *


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

The first blow was not unexpected, but it came like the first few drops of a storm, unimpressive and insignificant, but resolutely signalling what was to come. A raw shout left Nathaniel's lips as he swung his sword directly for Arthur's heart. Arthur knocked it away with Excalibur, his eyes burning. Arthur whirled his sword around and led the attack on his former knight, his face set. Nathaniel locked his sword with Arthur's, and in the momentary pause smirked at him, his one good eye glinting. The hood had fallen from his face, revealing the truly different man that the Sarmatian had become. Arthur thrust Nathaniel's sword away, stepping around, the two creeping in a circle, their footwork painfully similar.

"It was the Romans who taught me, Arthur. It was you who trained me." Nathaniel taunted, raising his shoulders mockingly.

Arthur swung, than was immediately forced to duck down under the Sarmatian's blade as it whirled over his head, just brushing the tips of his hair, the gust of air refreshingly cool on his sweating neck. He side-stepped a haphazard downward blow and sliced out at Nathaniel's chest with his own weapon. Nathaniel thrust himself backwards, his footwork wavering slightly, before returning to the careful, practised small steps. Arthur's sword traced a thin red line along Nathaniel's collarbone.

Then they were back, fighting blow for blow.

Lancelot watched dizzily, unable to tear his eyes away, his hands itching for his twin blades and to be fighting next to Arthur, despite his wounds.

The knights surged forward, meeting with Nathaniel's fighters with an immeasurable ferocity and anger. Loathing for the traitor. Nathaniel, the betrayer.

The fighting was swift and deadly. Nathaniel's men had lost their greatest advantage: no longer did they stay resolutely on the defensive. With battle came risk, and now that they fought back, they were suddenly wide open to the dark threat of death. The knights, determined and forceful as they were, made swift work of striking down those who opposed them. The fighters were no match for the knights' skill. Gawain and Galahad stood defensively in front of Lancelot, keeping Nathaniel's men from reaching the wounded knight.

More and more fighters fell, until quite suddenly, the bodies of dead and wounded men littered the forest floor, and the only movement was Arthur and Nathaniel, still locked in battle.

Nathaniel abruptly stepped away from Arthur, backing up to out of Excalibur's reach. "Stop." He said simply, his manner calm and his expression almost one of amusement.

Arthur paused in slight confusion, his sword raised. Behind him, he heard his knights making noises of disbelief.

"The bastard wants mercy." Bors growled hatefully, his eyes narrowing and his fingers clenching on his sword.

"No, Master Bors, I am not the one that should be considering begging for mercy." Nathaniel said dryly, gesturing towards the knights and Arthur.

"What the bloody hell..." Brydan trailed off as twelve archers stepped out from behind the thick trees, their arrows notched and ready, the sharp arrowheads pointed squarely at each knight's heart, the fletching quivering. The archers' expressions were ones of statues, cold and stoic.

"Congratulations on besting my warriors, Castus." Nathaniel continued, his thick, matted hair drifting softly in a drifting gust of air through the trees. A stray dark curl fell over his good eye, and he brushed it away with a gloved hand, the material running uneasily over his scarred flesh.

"Unfortunately for you, they weren't all of my little army." He said the last word sarcastically, biting it off sharply. "I haven't received all that I want yet."

"And what is it you want?" Arthur asked through clenched teeth, the hand not on his sword curling into a fist.

"Your death, of course." Nathaniel started off, speaking loudly and with an air of self-confidence. "But first I want you to suffer. I want you to suffer as much as I did, when you betrayed me and left me to die in the hands of Saxon bastards." His voice tightened.

"How do you plan to go about doing that?" Arthur asked, a numb feeling starting in the back of his mind.

"By killing who you love most."

Realisation dawned on Arthur, the shock of it causing him to take a reflexive step back. "You won't get to him! I'll die before you touch him!"

The knights behind him growled and swore in outrage, using both English and Sarmatian to properly convey their thoughts. Gawain and Galahad stepped closer to Lancelot, standing in front of him and blocking him from Nathaniel's view, as if that would deter him from his intent.

Lancelot took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Although that can be arranged, it doesn't follow my plan. And I worked so hard for it to be perfect..." Nathaniel said, his one dark eye narrowing. "No. You'll give Lancelot to me. And he will fight. You have no choice, however amusing I find it that you still appear to think that you do."

"You won't touch him." Arthur said slowly, his voice dark. Both hands wrapped around the hilt of his great sword, he took a step forwards.

There was a soft noise, and an arrow thudded into the dirt at Arthur's feet.

"You see, my archers will kill you if you move. A bit of a conundrum now, isn't it?" Nathaniel asked, his eye gleaming with anticipation. His hands moved restlessly on his sword hilt.

"He can't stand! How do you expect him to fight?" Galahad shouted desperately, disbelief thick in his words.

"I know Lancelot. He's not dead yet. He'll fight." Nathaniel spoke with such conviction, such finality, that the Arthur and the knights felt themselves believing him despite their feelings otherwise. "You, and he, have no choice." He repeated.

The arrows trained on Arthur and his knights did not waver. They really did have no choice. They were destined to see this rogue knight kill his oldest friend in front of their very eyes.

Nathaniel stepped forward, looking past Gawain and Galahad to where Lancelot lay. "Stand up." He said calmly, his voice containing no doubt at all.

Lancelot didn't move; his eyes still closed.

"Stand. Up." Nathaniel repeated, his voice hardening slightly.

Once more, Lancelot remained in place.

"Stand UP!" Nathaniel shouted, his voice dark and insistent.

Lancelot did not move.

Nathaniel grew strangely quiet. His voice was low in volume, but every word was stressed in every possible way.

"Stand up, you son of a bitch, or I will go to your tribe and slit your sister's throat."

Lancelot opened his eyes.

Fire burned deep in his dark eyes, the flames flickering inside them fiercely. Slowly, very slowly, he placed his bloody, tightly wrapped palms flat on the ground, his fingers splaying out in the dirt. With almost a ripple of movement down his arms, Lancelot pushed himself carefully up into a sitting position. His eyes were unfocused, and his head tilted from side to side without any balance, betraying his true dizziness. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Lancelot brought his knees up towards his chest and forced himself upwards. Teetering dangerously, Lancelot squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on being upright.

Gawain grasped his shoulder as he swayed, almost holding the wounded knight up as he gathered his senses.

"Let him go." Nathaniel said, his voice dark. "He's the great, proud Lancelot. Why help him?"

Gawain wouldn't have listened, but the mad glint was back in Nathaniel's eye, and he unknowingly met eyes with one of the archers. In the moment that their eyes were locked, Gawain knew for certain, he would not miss. Gently, guilt burning inside of him, Gawain withdrew his hold on Lancelot, and to his great relief the knight stayed on his feet.

Lancelot felt as if he had been trampled by a herd of herd of wild horses. His head pounded with every movement he made and his mind swam in a deep confusing sea of weakness and bitter helplessness. But as he stood there, his body and mind screaming in agony, Lancelot felt it all slip away. Staring at Nathaniel's cold presence, knowing who he was and what he had done, this man, his best friend, Lancelot felt icy adrenaline burn through his veins. No, this would end _now_.

With a burst of determination, Lancelot set his shoulders, and stood to his full height, straightening his battered body. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes dark as midnight. It was with a thrill of malicious satisfaction that Lancelot saw Nathaniel's eyes temporarily widen with disbelief. He took a step forward, barely feeling the withering pain it caused.

Lancelot smirked easily, his strained features and blood-marked skin the only evidence of his former trials. He stood, arm on his hip, tilted cockily to the side as if daring Nathaniel to attack him.

"Where are my swords?" Lancelot asked, directing his words to Nathaniel and licking his dry lips. His voice sounded surprisingly like the normal Lancelot, even to his own ears. The knights around him watched him in a sort of stunned silence; unable to believe Lancelot's forced transformation. But there was no way that it could last for long.

Nathaniel jerkily motioned to one of the archers, and he lowered his arrow. The man slid a heavy sack off his shoulders, and pulled open the top. Out of it, he pulled the two twin blades, the sharp metal glistening in the pale British sun.

The archer tossed the two blades, hilt first, to Lancelot's feet. His bow was back up, and his arrow trained at Arthur and his knights as before almost immediately.

Lancelot leant down and snatched up his swords, and had them in their battle positions automatically. It almost broke his fragile hold on his facade of wellness as darkness threatened to rush in from the edge of his vision, and spots appeared before him. His palms burned with fresh pain as the sword hilts dug into the cuts there, and sharp daggers of agony shot up from his slender wrists with the weight of his two blades in his weak and torn muscles. Regardless, Lancelot forced his blades up to rest them on his shoulders, adrenaline imitating strength in his limbs.

"Come." Nathaniel demanded.

Lancelot stepped forward, and almost with a flash, it began.

Arthur felt his heart snap in two.

Nathaniel swung, his sword arcing deeply towards Lancelot's abdomen. The knight stepped sideways, bringing his blades together and knocking the offending sword away as one. He barely moved, back straight and shoulders set, his eyes following Nathaniel's every movement. Nathaniel lunged forward, slicing high at the knight's chest, only to be deflected by Lancelot's two blades.

The scarred man back up, circling around Lancelot, watching incredulously as Lancelot, his face expressionless, matched him step for step, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel's face.

Lancelot saw the man in front of him, but in his blurry eyes the face was not the same. The scar softened, then disappeared entirely. The rough beard on his face slipped away, and was replaced by a strong, clean-shaven jaw. His matted black hair dissolved into a playful mess of dark brown curls, framing his high cheekbones and falling haphazardly into his laughing chocolate eyes.

_Nathaniel_.

Blinking, Lancelot dragged his sleeve clumsily over his eyes, and when he looked again he saw only the dirty, scarred man in front of him.

Nathaniel's sword crashed against both Lancelot's blades once more, this time slipping forwards and dragging down Lancelot's arms. Both his wrists snapped downwards, the hilts of his twin swords starting to slip through his numb fingers. With great effort, he forced his clumsy hands around them once more and raised them again. The knight hardly noticed the agony, the feeling melting away into his haze of pain and determination. Lancelot once more blocked defensively, than forced Nathaniel's sword aside.

Somewhere, as if from a distance away, Lancelot though he heard the voices of the knights and Arthur. There were other dim noises, but Lancelot was deaf and blind to anything but Nathaniel. Nathaniel was circling around him once more.

_Arthur strode towards him, the sun gleaming on his ceremonial armour, his deep red cloak billowing out behind him imposingly._

Nathaniel slashed at Lancelot's neck, and the knight felt himself slipping back into his usual fighting style, years and years of training and battle ingraining it into his very being, no matter what the circumstances. Lancelot brought both his sharp blades up and with a resounding crash of steel against steel, the knight caught Nathaniel's sword between his crossed blades.

Lancelot looked between the crossed blades at Nathaniel, gasping for breath in the odd pause as his gaze was just as tightly locked in Nathaniel's good eye as the other's sword was between his two.

_Arthur looked between the crossed blades at him, and Lancelot felt as if the Roman was looking inside his very soul. It took all the Sarmatian had to gaze back indifferently; instinctively defiant of this man who would be his commander for the rest of his ten-year service._

Lancelot blinked in confusion, dizzily side-stepping as Nathaniel's blade swung out at him once more. He knocked it aside with one blade, swinging the other independently around towards Nathaniel's heart. Blood made Lancelot's grip slip over the hilts of his twin swords. Nathaniel shoved one blade aside, and knocked his sword back in time to save his flesh from Lancelot's blade. Lancelot whirled, ducking Nathaniel's reflexive blow and slicing his blades in an X. Nathaniel swiped one away, and leaned desperately back, only the tip of Lancelot's left blade just barely scrapping the front of Nathaniel's tunic.

_There was the roar of boys' voices around them, the screams and jeers of teenage males' amusement at any show of aggression. In the distance, he could just hear the busy sounds of the fort, his new, temporary, home. Lancelot could hear Nathaniel's voice call out louder than the others in Sarmatian, colourfully insulting the Roman that Lancelot was currently fighting in words that the former couldn't understand._

Lancelot shook his head, but that only made the cloudy, confused feeling in his mind grow. No, he was fighting Nathaniel, not Arthur.

_Arthur fought in front of him, his powerful sword crashing against Lancelot's smaller two with an amount of force that made Lancelot's bones shake and his wrists scream in pain._

No. No! Arthur stood behind him, watching... just as Nathaniel had been watching.

_Faster and faster his blades flew, forcing away the sword in front of him. He sliced towards the Roman, alternating the direction of his blades; beads of sweat dripping down his cheek. Suddenly, one of his blades was knocked away-_

Lancelot watched in horror as one of his blades spun to rest in the dirt, away and out of his reach. No! The knight's attention snapped back to Nathaniel, and he fought back with only one blade. Nathaniel was gloating, he knew Lancelot was weak with only one sword, he knew all his weaknesses...

There was a crash of metal as Lancelot forced his blade against Nathaniel's, twisting, turning, slicing, slashing, everything he could as his minor reserves of strength were sapped from his bones. His vision wavered, his one blade sliding dangerously in his bloody hand. Lancelot grasped his one sword with both hands, ignoring the pain that shot through his arms from his palms and wrists.

Nathaniel thrust Lancelot's blade aside and slashed the knight down his chest.

Lancelot sank to his knees in agony as black rushed through his mind. His one remaining sword was blocked away and he crumpled to the ground, on the edge between wakefulness and numbing sleep.

He could see Nathaniel's face above him, grinning in victory, his eyes gleaming with triumph. His sword was raised, about to come down for the killing blow.

_Arthur looked down at him, his face expressionless. Lancelot tried to still his gasping breath, and not look at the heavy sword held quivering at his throat. Instead, he looked up at Arthur, who seemed to be considering something. Then, in that moment, Arthur let the mask fall, and Lancelot saw the approval and praise in his eyes. Then just as soon as it had came, it was gone._

The blade fell towards Lancelot.

_Arthur._

_Nathaniel._

The clash of steel upon steel rang through the trees. Excalibur was suspended in the air over Lancelot, blocking the deathblow. Nathaniel looked at Arthur in shock. The moment he paused was his death. In two swift strokes, the former knight was disarmed and lying prone on the forest floor, Arthur's sword held at his throat.

The archers lay dead.

"So it comes to this, Arthur." Nathaniel gasped; teeth bared and eye gleaming. "Can you kill one of your own knights?"

Arthur leaned forward, his voice deep with suppressed anger. "No."

Nathaniel laughed.

"My knights are brave and loyal. You are not one of my knights." Arthur spat, and drove Excalibur through Nathaniel's twisted heart.

* * *


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.

* * *

Lancelot awoke to jarring movement that brought his headache to new heights of misery. A groan escaped his lips before he could suppress it, and he found that he was too weak to even lift his head to even see where he was. He was alive. As he slowly became more aware of the world around him, Lancelot recognised the familiar gait of a horse beneath him. He felt a strong arm wrapped around his abdomen keeping him on the horse's back, and a hard chest behind him; slowly raising up and down with each breath.

"Good morning."

"Shut up, Arthur." Lancelot murmured uselessly. He needn't have bothered; Arthur wasn't about to listen to him anyway.

Arthur readjusted his hold on the now-awake knight, trying to judge from behind Lancelot's well-being. Asking would be of no use whatsoever, but the question was still numbingly urgent.

"Nathaniel's dead, isn't he."

It wasn't a question. But Arthur answered it anyway. "Yes." He said softly, unsure of how this would be handled.

Lancelot was silent. Arthur felt something warm and wet on his chest. Blood. It had seeped through his armor and the tunic underneath. Lancelot's bandages were soiled again, no matter the sutures that ran down his chest, stitched up quickly and messily his own blood.

"All this time, I thought he was dead... Now he really is. I- I thought..." Lancelot trailed off, sounding confused. His strength seemed to be fleeing away with every word.

Arthur frowned; worry tore at his heart. _No. _Transferring the reigns to the hand around Lancelot, Arthur placed his hand gently on his knight's forehead. Arthur's heart squeezed in concern at how the knight didn't object. This told Arthur what he would find even before he found it. Lancelot burned with infection. And they were still six days from the wall.

* * *

Lancelot lay still as death, burning with fever, for two days. He had not woken since his brief conversation with Arthur about Nathaniel's death. The knight's chest rose and fell weakly, his would bleeding slowly against Arthur's breast as the Roman rode towards the wall. The other knights rode around him, never objecting to the pace he set, and never complaining about the sporadic and painfully brief rest breaks. They knew what was at risk, and wanted Lancelot's life spared as much as Arthur did.

In the dawn of the third day, Lancelot stirred against Arthur's shoulder, his head rolling sideways and a low groan escaping from his lips. Arthur forced himself not to reign in is horse, but to keep on steadily. They needed to continue. Arthur readjusted his hold around Lancelot, so that he could look down at the pale face, with its cheeks flushed with heat.

"Lancelot?" He asked softly, his eyes on his wounded knight.

Lancelot slowly opened his eyes, the lids blinking heavily in the early morning light. Arthur smiled in relief, glancing up only to nod to the other knights to confirm that he was awake. Looking down once more, something tightened painfully deep within his heart. Lancelot's dark eyes were bright and glittering with fever, staring intently over Arthur's shoulder. He showed no recognition of his friend and commander. Arthur felt something cold growing in the pit of his stomach. Lancelot was delirious.

Suddenly, the knight muttered something, the words fumbling past his lips. Arthur listened, trying to understand, but as Lancelot continued, he found the words to be meaningless gibberish. He rode on, the dawn turning to late morning, and the late morning expiring into afternoon. By the time the sun went down, Arthur had decided that as horrible as it made him feel to do so, he greatly preferred the Lancelot from the few days before.

The knight was restless with fever and shifted his aching body against the fire burning beneath his skin. Arthur's arms were stiff with the effort of holding him in the saddle in front of him, sometimes even having to press the knight against his chest until a particularly violent fit passed. Slowly, in the darkness of the night, Arthur started to suspect the mumbled and slurred words to be Sarmatian. It was difficult to tell; his knight hadn't slipped into Sarmatian either in nightmares or pain since the first few months of his service with Arthur. Indeed, Arthur hadn't heard his knights speak Sarmatian at all for years.

That is, until Nathaniel returned.

As the Roman settled into the knowledge that his knight was no longer speaking nonsense in his hallucinations, the curiosity started to grow inside of him. What was Lancelot saying? He had never been a man of few words, but the way he spoke now, without hesitation or concern... Arthur hadn't heard his knight speak like this for a very long time.

_Not since he had served the Roman cause, and gained the heard-earned maturity of a battle-hardened warrior. His enthusiasm, energy, spirit and natural inquisitiveness had turned to courage, stamina, strength of will and a great knowledge of death, pain and suffering._

It was the hard truth, but it was still the truth. The boy that had come to him that day when he had become the leader of a group of childrenhad been just that, a boy. And Arthur, much in the way of a father, had seen him grow into a man. A scarred man, but a man nevertheless. Arthur could still fleetingly remember the days when Lancelot had prattled on for hours about home, about Sarmatia, and how the young knight's eyes had lit up with hope and longing...

Those days were gone, but now, as Arthur looked down his fevered friend, he couldn't help but remember. He almost didn't notice Gawain drawing up beside him. It took him a moment to realise that he was listening to Lancelot's ramblings. Listening and understanding. For a moment, he remained undecided, wanting to respect Lancelot's privacy, but curiosity eventually won over.

"What is he saying?" Arthur asked, glancing over at where Gawain was riding silently, his face a mask.

The blonde knight was silent for a long time. Arthur wondered if he would answer.

"He's talking to his father."

Arthur didn't know what he had been expecting, but somehow he had known this was going to be the answer, even though he hadn't consciously realised it. There was another long pause.

"He's asking about death." Gawain added, his face still a mask, but his eyes showing the glimmer of deep feeling behind them. After a moment, the blonde knight slowed his horse enough to draw away from Arthur, and out of hearing of Lancelot. It wasn't out of disgust, or fear, it was out of pain and sympathy in a friend's suffering.

Arthur had not expected this new revelation. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip around the delirious Lancelot.

* * *

It was on the fourth day that Lancelot's delirium took a turn for the worse. He screamed one moment, was wracked with grief the next. He tossed in Arthur's arms, blindly fighting his way out of what he felt of as confinement. It was torture for his friends and comrades to hear. Lancelot sank further and further into the fever, his face becoming gaunt and his eyes shadowed and rimmed with dark circles. His skin was always covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat that left him burning hot and freezing cold in a dizzying cycle.

In the afternoon Tristan rode up to Arthur's side. "If his fever does not break tonight, there is no hope." His words were soft but the Roman knew they were sincere. Aye, his knights had seen enough of their comrades succumb to fever to know the signs. He had as well. If Lancelot did not overcome his sickness soon, he would be too weak to continue fighting.

Without a word, Arthur glanced at Kastrian, who had been the latest of the two scouts to search ahead every few miles. Kastrian nodded; there was a place nearby they could safely set up camp.

"Fine." Arthur said hoarsely; wishing his voice didn't sound so exhausted. "We'll stop." Tristan and Kastrian spurred their horses in front of the group of knights, leading them towards rest.

Arthur's arms ached from where they were wrapped around his knight, holding him in the saddle. The strain of the past day had almost made his arms give out, but the Roman resolutely tightened his hold on his best friend and first knight, and spurred his horse onwards. When the scouts finally stopped in a small, rocky valley, he was nevertheless still reluctant to give up his charge into Dagonet's waiting arms. The large knight took Lancelot carefully, making sure he was as gentle as possible as Arthur slid him from the saddle.

Dagonet lay the painfully restless knight down near to where Tristan had sprang up a fire in a mound of quickly gathered dry twigs. Arthur dismounted ungracefully, stumbling as his numb feet met the hard ground. He made to follow Dagonet, but Brydan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. In a moment, Aidron was on his other side. Together, their steered him to a place near the fire.

"I have to-" Arthur insisted, trying to rise and reach his wounded knight.

"No." Aidron shook his head. "You need rest. Galahad and Gawain are tending to him."

Through the dancing flames of their little fire, Arthur could see how Galahad had Lancelot's shoulders raised on his knees, with his own cool palm against the other's burning forehead. Gawain had already redressed Lancelot's hands and wrists, and was about to move on to his chest. They were very experienced with caring for wounded comrades, all his knights were. They all had to be. This wasn't the first time that they had dressed a fevered friend's injuries, and Arthur was sure that it wouldn't be their last.

Slightly assured, Arthur opened his mouth to ask who would take the first watch when his eyes came to rest upon Bors, his large form standing firm and resolute in the flickering of the fire. A familiar sight, and one that installed some feeling of safety and normalcy into Arthur's anxious heart. His knights were capable of doing their duties. His own presence was barely needed, a troubling yet soothing thought for the tired Roman.

"Wake me, if anything changes." Arthur stated firmly to Tristan. The scout nodded; his eyes dark.

Feeling slightly guilty about not being more help, but knowing there was nothing more that he could do, Arthur sank into a fitful sleep.

* * *

"Arthur, wake up."

The hand on his shoulder shook him awake, the speaker's voice loud in his ears. In a flash, he was sitting up, eyes wide and alert.

"What is wrong? What has happened?"

"Come."

Even before the word was said, Arthur had thrown his thin blanket aside and was on his feet. The fire had sunk into merely glowing embers, smoke rising in a soft grey tendril towards the slowly lightening sky. Some part of Arthur's mind registered this, noticed the status of the camp, and located all his knights in the time it took the Roman to look past the fire and see his wounded knight.

Lancelot was thrashing about, his damp curls plastered to his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together with anxiety, and shouting in a hoarse, deep voice, trying desperately to escape from the hands restraining him.

"Arthur! ARTHUR! I have to- I have to tell him...Let me go! ARTHUR!" Lancelot had lifted his shoulders off the ground, obviously trying to sit up. He might have succeded but for Dagonet holding him down with two large hands on either side of Lancelot's slim neck. Gawain and Galahad each held an arm as gently as possible while still keeping him from hurting himself. They looked tenderly down on the ill knight, concern etched deeply into their features.

"Arthur...The dark prince, I...Arthur! ARTHUR!"

Lancelot cried out for his best friend with such feeling that it made Arthur feel sick inside with grief and sympathy.

Arthur was at his side immediately, brushing back the damp black curls and running a callused thumb down the knight's prominent pale cheekbone. He gathered Lancelot in his arms, the other's head cradled against his shoulder. The other knights stepped away, knowing that their friend was in good hands. Arthur gently stroked Lancelot's cheek as he looked down into the dark brown eyes. They were exhausted, pained, and...clear. The bright, feverish look had left them, much to Arthur's surprised relief. Lancelot regarded him cautiously, as it not quite sure who it was that held him so securely and comfortingly.

The wounded knight raised a shaking hand and traced the shape of Arthur's face, from his hair to his chin, as if reassuring himself that the man before him were real.

"Lancelot?" Arthur asked slowly, nervously. It was almost too much to hope that he would be recognised.

But then, with a brief spark of awareness deep in the dark brown eyes, Lancelot's mouth quirked into a smile and a glow of recognition was reflected in his eyes.

"Arthur." The word was said tranquilly, the direct opposite of his anxious and fearful cries of earlier. "I- I had to warn you about..." He trailed off softly, looking up at his friend and commander.

"Yes?" Arthur prompted gently, his voice calm.

His brow furrowed. "I...I don't remember."

"There's nothing to worry about," Arthur reassured him. "We have Tristan to kill anyone who threatens either one of us."

From a few feet away, while tending the fire, the corners of Tristan's eyes crinkled.

Lancelot lay content in Arthur's arms, his eyes slowly closing. "Thank you."

"For what?" Arthur asked, softly brushing Lancelot's curls off his forehead.

"Saving me. From 'Thaniel."

"I promised, when I accepted you as my knights, that I would protect you all as best I could."

Lancelot smiled with his eyes closed and his face peaceful. "The Roman bastards didn't like that."

"No, they didn't." Arthur agreed wryly, preferring to skip over that memory of the dressing-down he had received from the Roman officials after his speech. "Sleep, Lancelot."

Lancelot searched with one of his bandaged hands for Arthur's large warm one. He clasped it to his chest. "Promise you'll always save me." He whispered, his voice no louder then the wind in the grass. His voice sounded muffled, and Arthur didn't doubt that the knight wouldn't again remember this part of the conversation. He was already mostly asleep.

Arthur wrapped his other hand around Lancelot's and his. "I promise, Lancelot of Sarmatia."

And Lancelot slept.

* * *

_"Nathaniel, are you afraid of death?" Lancelot asked, staring up at the stars above._

_"Here, or in general?" Nathaniel's reply was slurred with sleep, his eyes closed, and his body turned on his side away from Lancelot._

_"What if we never go home again?" Lancelot's voice wavered, and he faded into silence._

_Nathaniel rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. Around him the rest of the knights slept, exhausted from a day of rough travel. Tennir stood at the edge of the knights' encampment, his back to small mounds of sleeping bodies. He was alert and listening for sounds of attack or approaching scouts, but he would purposefully turn a silent ear to the two knights' conversation. Nathaniel looked over at Lancelot, flicking a stray tendril of curly brown hair out of the way. _

_"We will go home. If not in life, in death. There's nothing to be afraid of, Lance."_

_Lancelot sat up, dragging his cloak up around his shoulders. "But why are we here? We shouldn't be. We have no reason to want to fight the Woads. My father used to say that he wished that they would reclaim all their old land and kill all the bastard Ro-!" Nathaniel's hand was clasped over Lancleot's mouth. _

_"Gods, Lancelot. Many of us think those things but we never say it. Ever. You know better than that. Arthur may look away or pretend he misheard you, just because you're you, but if any other Roman heard he would hang you for treason." Nathaniel spoke quickly and harshly, his eyes flickering up to where Tennir stood silently, before turning back to Lancelot. _

_Lancelot shoved off Nathaniel's hand "It's true."_

_Nathaniel looked up at the stars. "I know."_

_"I hate fate."_

_"Our fates have always been decided for us. In the moment that our ancestors lost to the Romans, our destiny was set. When we were born, when we will die..."_

_"I will not, I will _not _die when fate decides it is time for me to go. I will not die fighting for the Romans just because of something a Sarmatian did a hundred years ago."_

_"Then when will you die, oh great one who tempts fate?" Nathaniel asked sarcastically._

_"In a battle of my own choosing. One I decide to fight, not one that I'm ordered to." _

_Nathaniel paused. "If you are so certain, why are you afraid of death?" _

_Lancelot was silent for a long time. "Because I don't want to die alone and forgotten as a slave to an Empire."_

_"We are Sarmatian, Lancelot. We were born Sarmatian and we will die Sarmatian. And nothing, no matter what the Romans do or say, no matter how far we are taken from our home, no matter how many people we kill or battles we see, nothing will change that. You will never be alone. You will always be remembered not as a slave, but as the mighty Knight of the Round Table, Lancelot of Sarmatia."_

_Lancelot stared at the stars above. Wind blew through the trees, rustling branches and leaves, bringing the cool scent of the forest with it._

_"Thank you 'Thaniel."_

_"Shut up and go to sleep, Lance."_

* * *

/ To BeContinued... \\


End file.
